


Survival of the Fittest

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Bottom Dean, Celebrity Dean, Chubby Dean, Dean Has a Dog, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Personal Trainer Castiel, Russian Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: Between his rare gigs as a D-list ex-soap star, actor/model Dean Winchester doesn’t have a lot going for him. That is, until his manager tells him that he’ll get his shot at the big time… if he can get his act together.The challenge is anything but simple: five months to put on thirty pounds of muscle. With the help of 5000 calories a day and a bristly Russian trainer named Castiel, will Dean be able to snag the spotlight? Or will a bad reputation sabotage his chances?Turns out that superstardom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and it really does help to share the weight on your shoulders with someone you love.  DCBB 2016.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hate to do this to you chubby!Dean stans ☹ It was actually super painful to write away Dean’s cute soft tum. That being said, I am NOT suggesting that if you have a little extra weight, you would be happier changing your lifestyle and losing it. Actors have to change their body types all the time depending on the roles they pursue – [often to unhealthy extremes](http://www.eonline.com/news/365424/skinny-matthew-mcconaughey-dishes-on-his-shocking-weight-loss) – that’s all I meant. Dean’s workout is actually based off of Chris Evans’ regimen for Captain America, which I’ll include [here](http://www.bodybuilding.com/content/chris-evans-captain-america-training-plan.html). Still, if anything offends you in some way, please let me know and I’ll try my best to address it.  
> If you see anything that looks like Russian, hover over the line with your curser and a translation will pop up, like this (hover). I spell kind of phonetically, not using the alphabet, so you can read along if you'd like. If you think a translation might be incorrect, please say so!
> 
> I owe everything to that one episode of Transparent, holy shit. Also, to my beautiful beta [Amy](apiaristcas.tumblr.com) and my roommate [Emily](gentlehands19.tumblr.com). You both have been so extraordinarily supportive throughout this process. Thank you for all your input and patience.
> 
> Shout out to my brilliant artist [Celeste!](alittlehuntress.tumblr.com) Thank you for your beautiful work, love. [Art masterpost here.](http://alittlehuntress.tumblr.com/post/153492473057/made-for-the-awesome-fic-survival-of-the-fittest)
> 
> Enjoy, y'all <3

He had spread out flat across the bed sometime in the night, arms flung haphazardly to the sides of him and tucked underneath his pillows – five of them. Dean wasn't entirely sure what woke him, but that glare of sunlight slowly burning through his eyelids was a likely culprit. It cast everything he dreamt in an annoying, fleshy red.

With a groan, Dean flipped himself onto his side to face away from the offending sunbeam. At the foot of the bed, his King Charles Spaniel Indie whined for her breakfast. He kept his eyes averted so not to fall victim to her irresistible puppy begging.

 _Thirty more minutes,_ he conceded, and then he drifted off again.

When Dean woke for the second time, the first thing he did was fumble for his phone on the bedside table. Ignoring the seemingly endless stream of notifications taking up his lock screen, he fired off a few good morning snapchats to his followers, greasy skin, crazy hair, and all. They would be as forgiving as they always were. From the comfort of his king-sized bed, he ordered some breakfast off Postmates. He deleted the few text messages from his dad that must have come in overnight without reading them. Indie paced nervously at the door while Dean thumbed open Instagram.

 **Dean Winchester** _Actor/model living in LA ;)))_ _Snapchat: @impala67 Twitter: @dwinchester_

He discovered a few new photos of him from the karaoke bar the night before in his tags. He’d lost Gordon in the crowd, but from the look of things he’d gotten along just fine without him: he wore clumsy smiles and flaunted grabby hands with his new friends’ arms around him, shirt unbuttoned at the throat and eyes glazed over. He had always considered his ability to make friends anywhere he went to be one of his best traits. That, and his extraordinary tolerance for alcohol.

So he took the time to like a few of the more flattering photos and send off another snapchat. Aw, look – new filters. Cute.

Indie’s whining only pitched higher, and he groaned.

“Alright, alright. Geez.”

Letting the dog out for a quick morning pee on the lawn outside his apartment building got him almost awake enough to start the day. By then soft clouds had crowded the new spring sky, cooling it off just enough that goose bumps popped up along Dean’s bare arms. The clock on his microwave read 11:54, so he yawned and padded over to the bathroom.

Even though Dean showed few reservations when it came to spending money on himself, there truly was no better room in his apartment than the bathroom: twin shower heads, a sonic skin scrubber for a deep clean, sweet-smelling body wash tinged with sage and spice that never failed to invigorate him for the day ahead. All necessary expenses, though; his brand was himself. Dean needed to be something that people wanted to buy.

He rolled his neck in the spray with a contented sigh, and half-heartedly trailed a hand down to his cock. He’d woken up half hard, and though it certainly wasn’t urgent Dean had never been good at denying himself anything.

It didn’t take much; all he had to do was summon up a memory of Carmen from the bar last night and he was feeling a bit tingly. His quiet moans echoed deliciously off the tile. The good acoustics were a big part of the reason he bought this place. His love for listening to himself is why he went into acting, in fact.

By the time he got out of the shower and donned his favorite fluffy robe, his breakfast was waiting for him at the door. Chai tea latte – light ice – and a breakfast sandwich with sausage. He’d probably follow that up with a bag of barbeque chips or something later, once he woke up enough to really get hungry. He poured a little whisky into his coffee and doled out a sloppy bowl of kibble for Indie before truly settling into the kitchen.

Dean’s computer was still sitting on the island where he’d left it the day before, so he figured he could squeeze a few Buzzfeed videos into his morning while he ate. Pamela, his stylist, sent him a text that she was stuck in traffic. With an annoyed eye roll, he just told her not to bother.

He had barely even set his phone down when it started ringing.

He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and swallowed. “What?” he griped.

“I’m bloody brilliant.”

Dean sighed heavily into his phone and shifted it to his shoulder. “Why? Manage to trick another high schooler into bed with you?” Reluctantly, he shut his computer.

The dulcet, lilting accent of his manager dropped to something that sounded like exasperation on the other end of the line. “She was eighteen, that’s not a crime. And no. I did something even _more_ remarkable.”

Dean crumpled up his sandwich bag with a loud crinkle and got up to stick his coffee in the fridge for later. If he were lucky, it wouldn’t curdle too badly by the time he got back to it. “Well don’t keep me in suspense, Crowley.”

“I found you a _job_.”

After a moment of stunned surprise, Dean scoffed and padded back into the bedroom. “Oh, cool. So you did what I pay you for.”

Without Pamela to doll him up, he was going to have to fend for himself. He threw open his closet and inspected his choices. _Is it a polo or loose-fitting tank top kind of day?_ he wondered half-heartedly.

“You barely pay me at all, Winchester. And you’re behind this month if you want to get technical.” Crowley tsked when Dean didn’t deign to reply, opting instead to make funny faces at nothing. “I just did you a colossal favor, you ingrate! You don’t even know!”

Dean rolled his eyes and continued flipping through his wardrobe, trying to tune him out but knowing that Crowley would keep on talking anyway. He didn’t disappoint.

“Lionsgate recently announced that they’re rebooting An American Werewolf in London for 2018, and they’re still looking for their All American pretty boy lead. I threw your name into the ring,” Crowley purred, voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction.

Dean grinned and halted in his perusal, his thumb resting on a well-worn green Henley that never failed to make his pecs look _amazing._ “You’re kidding. Oh, man, I loved that movie as a kid.”

“Don’t date yourself. You’re not allowed to be over thirty.”

“I’m still only twenty-nine –”

“You’re a dinosaur, love.”

Dean bristled and yanked the shirt off its hanger a little harder than was probably necessary. “Well I got the part anyway, didn’t I? What the hell are you worried about?”

“Not quite,” Crowley cautioned. His voice had already begun to slip lower into Business Mode and Dean could feel his good mood from earlier crumbling away.

“This is by no means a done deal. The only thing you’ve got going for you is your experience in horror films. Your notorious prissy attitude and your uncanny ability to sleep with your costars, on top of the fact that you aren’t even considered big enough for the role –”

Dean physically recoiled, freezing in the center of his room. Indie tilted her head at him with concern.

“I’m sorry, did you say I’m not _big enough_? Crowley, I’m six-one.”

“Have you been listening? These people want _American_. They want Swayze. They want Schwarzenegger. You’re not packing enough for their standards.”

“Tell that to the 600 people that feel me up on Santa Monica daily,” Dean replied.

“Let me bottom line it for you, darling,” Crowley snapped. “This role requires decorative muscle mass that you do not have. You’re already on thin ice with the casting directors thanks to your shoddy reputation, so if you can’t fall back on your looks then you’re out of the game. Which means that you’re out of a job and that I’M out of PAY.”

Dean frowned. “So I’ll just pack on the muscle. No big deal.”

He kicked his door halfway closed with his foot and admired himself in the full-length mirror affixed to the back. _Fuck, are those crows’ feet?_

“You’re bloody right you’re going to put on the weight. I’ve already scheduled an appointment with a trainer. Nothing too fancy on your meager salary, but he comes highly recommended.”

Dean worriedly traced the fine lines at his temples with a fingertip. Thirty already sucked. “Really?”

“Yes, I found him on Instagram.”

Knowing Crowley’s cheap ass, that probably wasn’t a joke. Dean sighed. “What do I need a trainer for anyway? I’ll just add some extra protein to my diet or something.”

Crowley scoffed on the other end of the phone. “Because I don’t think you’d actually do it. I’ve known you a long time, Dean: you’re lazy. You have no discipline. I’ve never seen you work hard for a single thing in your life.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I called in a favor for you, and I need to be assured that my investment will pay off,” Crowley told him.

“Great. Send me the details. I’ll be at the Olsen twins’ pool party.”

Before Crowley could protest, Dean hung up his phone with a flourish.

“Finally,” he sighed. “Peace and quiet.” He flashed a charming smile at Indie for good measure. She just wagged her tail and hopped up onto the bed to keep him company.

Dean turned to the side from where he was admiring himself in the mirror, trying not to frown and aggravate his stupid wrinkles. He should start moisturizing more. Bela warned him about that like five years ago, but he didn’t listen. That was probably why she had a starring role on an HBO series and he still relied on favors called in by his blackmailing son-of-a-bitch businessman of a manager. Even then, pickings were slim.

He poked at the pouch of his tummy just beneath the open fold of his robe. It wasn’t a drastic _protrusion,_ definitely not a beer gut but not quite a solid pack of abs either; he was never really able to shake off that last bit of baby fat from his teen years and it had only gotten more noticeable as he’d gotten older. A puppy belly, that’s what his mom used to call it back in grade school. Back in his soap days, the TV Guide reporters had even called it cute. It wasn’t like it affected his game or anything, right?

It wasn’t worth worrying over, anyway. He’d burn it off in no time.

With that thought, Dean tilted his head to his good side and admired the cut of his jaw, the wide and sturdy set of his shoulders. So what if he jiggled a little? Everyone does.

When he felt better, he winked at himself in the mirror and threw on his shirt. He grabbed his sunglasses off his bedside table and swiped his phone from the kitchen counter.

Yeah, Dean Winchester was a total catch. And he had a pool party to crash.

 

Final casting calls for American Werewolf would be held in September since Lionsgate wanted to make the announcement in time for Halloween, and Dean fell into a false sense of security. _I’ve got time,_ he’d thought.

He had actually forgotten about his promise to see the trainer until a few weeks into April, but Fergus Crowley was not the type to let things go so easily, not without some incessant bitching and behind-the-back scheming.

Benny met him at the curb in his big black Hummer, and Dean hopped in without hesitation, totally at ease.

“Hey, brother,” his bodyguard called over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, Big Guy,” Dean replied, slamming the huge door behind him as he slid into the deep, leather bench seat. The tinted windows blocked out the rest of the world while the killer stereo system drowned it out. Various consoles and cup holders ensured that Dean could totally relax in here. The experience of being driven around in this car made the little hop he had to take to make it through the door entirely worth it. Inside he felt sturdy and _safe_ , most of all.

“Your bag’s still in the back – make sure you grab it. Crowley sent me a memo to bring you over to the gym today,” Benny shouted back at him over the radio.

Dean tipped his head back against the seat in abject agony. “Ah, shit. Can we stop for lunch first?”

Benny sighed, but Dean was still one In-N-Out richer when he pulled up to the front doors of The Gym on Santa Monica Boulevard. He slurped blithely from his strawberry milkshake and grimaced.

The last time he’d been in a gym like this was probably back in high school, when he’d signed up for the baseball team to bond with his dad (fat load of good that did him anyway). There was just nothing good about gyms, in Dean’s opinion. The pervasive and offensive odors of sweat and Clorox wipes comingling, gangs of mean and beefy jocks congregating in the locker room, people watching you when you weren’t at your best… pass.

But Crowley _was_ right about one thing: Dean could really use this role, and the notoriety that would come with it. He’d have to go where he was led on this one.

Hopefully his trainer wouldn’t be too much of a dick.

On the way over from the restaurant Dean had imagined a comfortably bougie health spa, clean walls and a receptionist to tell him where to go, maybe a complimentary facial afterwards. But no one stood waving at the doors with a smile to help him along. The paint on the concrete walls was dull and chipped. He wandered alone on the open floor among rows of foreign machinery, drifting lost beneath the faint grunts of exertion and the whir of several high-powered fans. He could hear the distant misting of showers running in the next room. Dean spared a thought for the likely subpar water pressure, which in turn just made him think of yellowing towels and communicable foot fungus.

Cautiously, he meandered in the direction of the locker rooms, wondering if anyone would stop and ask him what he thought he was doing here. Nobody did, but on his way over to the other side of the room, he passed by some sort of office.

“Hi, excuse me,” he said, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as he felt.

A man in a baseball hat pushed right past him.

“No? Ok. Good talk,” Dean muttered.

You know what, the trainer would probably know his client, right? Googling people you work with in LA is like standard practice in this day and age.

So Dean took a seat along the edge of the room, crossed his legs, and waited.

He examined his nails and wondered idly if he remembered to lock his front door that morning. When that got boring, he pulled out his phone to try and look busy, but wound up just opening his email to double check the guy’s name. Mostly he was just praying that this trainer had forgotten about him, given that his presence meant Dean would be sweating every day for the foreseeable future. Not that he cared, but Dean was also kind of curious to see what he would be like.

In short: he wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The man heading straight for him did not have the strong, purposeful stride of a pro wrestler or someone ex-military. He wasn’t bulging with veins and muscles like a competitive bodybuilder. He wasn’t even sleek and professional-cute like Kate Hudson in those new active wear ads.

This guy, with his bright blue eyes and t-shirt emblazoned with the gym logo on the chest, was lean and smaller than Dean was. A multi-colored sweatband (Jesus, a _sweatband_ ) combed back his dark hair, and he had matching cuffs along his wrists. His socks were hiked all the way up. He had a _track jacket_ and a _mustache._

“Castiel Krushnic?” Dean asked with apprehension. _Please, God, no._

“Cas-tee-el,” the man corrected, thick accent oozing out from behind nice teeth. “Yes.”

_Damn it._

Dean shook his head and stood. “Yeah, whatever. Dean.”

Castiel looked him up and down, and then waved him forward. “Come. We weigh you now.”

He turned woodenly and walked away.

Dean’s eyes bugged out and he blew an exasperated breath.

“You have got to be kidding me, Crowley,” he muttered to himself. He was already mentally composing an irate text message to his manager.

This guy? Castiel? A joke. He was in shape, sure, but he was a twerp. He barely even spoke English.

Distracted and fuming, he very nearly ran right into his new trainer’s back. Castiel eyed him again, this time with a crease between his brows and a distasteful curl to his ‘stache.

“Step on the scale, please.”

Amazing. First grammatically correct sentence Dean had heard from him yet.

Dean set down his gym bag (Andrew Marc, vintage leather, thank you) sucked in his… middle, and stepped onto the platform. He rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms.

“Your shoes.”

Dean turned and raised an eyebrow. “‘Scuse me?”

There was already a line of tension working into Castiel’s shoulders – or maybe he was just that uptight all the time. He sighed, a note of irritation to the sound, and intensified his glare.

“Please remove your shoes so I can measure you,” he requested, and Dean could hear the pain in his tone.

They held their unimpressive stare-down for a few minutes more, the Russian deflating more and more by the second, and the sight was so pathetic that Dean yielded without much more of a fuss.

“Fine, fine. Shoes,” he relented. “Seems stupid when I just have to put ‘em back on again after,” he muttered.

Castiel took his measurements down on a ridiculous clipboard without another patronizing word, twirling his pencil around like a weapon in between thoughts. He asked a few questions here and there as Dean struggled to get his shoes back on.

“How much do you exercise weekly?” he asked, for example.

With a shrug, Dean replied, “Don’t really keep track.”

“Weights, cardio…?” Castiel prompted, without even looking up.

“A little of everything,” Dean lied.

(He didn’t like cardio. It made him hot and sweaty and achy. He did crunches in front of the TV sometimes. Pushups before bed, that kind of thing. ONE sunrise yoga class because he had heard that Kourtney Kardashian was going to be there. Soccer on the beach with his friends.)

“Were you active as a child?”

Dean stopped and thought for a minute. “I mean, I guess so. I was pretty skinny.”

Castiel just grunted and wrote something down. Dean’s eyes zeroed in on the squiggling pencil. Castiel was a lefty. For some reason, he trusted him a little less for that.

He glanced up to meet Dean’s gaze as if he could hear the thoughts directed at him. Dean turned his head, pretending to be interested in literally anything else. “Any past injuries?”

“None,” he lied.

Castiel slipped his pencil into the slot at the top of his clipboard. “So,” he prompted at last. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to change my body,” Dean said. Duh.

Castiel just blinked. “What do you want to do to it?”

“Make myself bigger,” Dean said with a smirk.

He might have just imagined it, but it almost seemed like Castiel smirked back a little as he glanced down at Dean’s tummy. “With muscle, you mean.”

Dean frowned at him. “Yeah, guy. With muscle. Like, I don’t know. At _least_ 30 more pounds.” Castiel didn’t visibly react beyond squiggling his pencil again.

Dean shifted. “I mean. Is that… is that realistic? Is that a good goal? I don’t know, you’re the professional here.”

“Let’s discuss your eating habits,” Castiel suggested, ignoring Dean’s questions and leaning up against the wall. “What do you eat?”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Um. I like… pasta? Oh man, chips. I’m a sucker for a bag of Lays. Cheeseburgers. Grilled cheese. Fries, steak. That’s protein, right? Ice cream’s got protein too I think, ‘cuz it’s dairy.”

Castiel frowned. “Fruit?”

“I like pie,” Dean replied.

Castiel just shook his head. “You need discipline.”

Dean couldn’t help it; he relaxed his posture, leaned into his hip, and lifted his head. He grinned with all thirty-two of his Hollywood-whitened teeth and purred, “Oh, I could definitely use some discipline.”

That got a reaction. One of Castiel’s eyebrows – which were not as bushy as one might have expected, judging by his legs and what curled out of the collar of his t-shirt – arched upwards, settling provocatively higher than its twin. And, fuck, that mustache really was a tragedy but the mouth it settled on? Dean’s eyes flicked down in appreciation. Castiel noticed and tilted his head in response.

He could say this much about Coach Castiel: he was not a stupid man.

“Are we gonna go ‘work out’ now?” Dean asked huskily.

He rested his hands on his hips in what he hoped was an enticing position. Castiel might not have spoken English very well, but Dean sure hoped he would understand an invitation when he was being hit over the head with it.

Castiel licked his lips and nodded. “Yes, it would be good to… _get to know you_ before I make the schedule.”

Well, it wasn’t what Dean had in mind when he got out of bed that day, but it looked like he was going to be doing it in the men’s locker room with his foreign personal trainer. He would just have to grab his bag and then –

“Drop and give me sixty-five.”

Dean blinked. _Wait… what?_

Castiel gestured harshly to the ground. “Down! Pushups! Go!”

Startled, Dean did as he was told and dropped to a plank position.

“Shouldn’t I, like… stretch first?” he asked dazedly. He felt like all the air had just been punched out of his lungs.

“No stretching before the workout,” Castiel barked at him. Dean shut the hell up and began robotically moving his arms. “When muscles are cold, they will tear under too much stress. Warm up instead. So pushups.”

“So pushups,” Dean grunted, feeling very much like an idiot. “And you just want me to keep going?”

“As many as you can. See? Discipline.”

Castiel put a foot on the center of his back, and pushed down.

Dean squawked and his arms quivered under the strain.

“Sixty-five,” Castiel repeated, “should be your minimum.”

With a whimper that he desperately hoped nobody else heard, Dean shifted his sweaty palms against the dirty, speckled floor and pushed against the weight on his back.

It became very clear very quickly that Dean was _not_ going to make it to Castiel’s sixty-five pushup minimum. He tried to fidget a few times and rest a little, but Castiel was positively militant about keeping pace. He shouted at him in Russian every time Dean so much as hesitated.

 _Ah, so that’s why he does this,_ Dean thought to himself. _Power trip. Lots of repressed rage._

When he finally couldn’t take it anymore, Dean let his arms give out and smushed his overheated cheek to the floor, gasping into the dirt and grime.

“That’s all I got,” he admitted.

Castiel didn’t respond for a minute, but Dean could practically feel the disappointment radiating off him like heat. Terrifying and incendiary.

“That’s all you got,” he repeated with evident disbelief, slowly rolling the syllables in his mouth as if tasting them. As if the idea were completely inconceivable.

“Yeah,” Dean snapped. “That’s all. I got.”

He heard a tiny squeak, and he turned his head to watch Castiel squat down beside him on the floor. His stupid shorts were riding up, hitched up high into the V of his groin and stretched tight over the flexing muscles there.

“Are you sure?” he mocked.

Dean clenched his sweaty hands. “Fuck – _yes_ ,” he hissed.

It was silent for one terrifying moment. He didn’t know Castiel well enough yet to guess how he would react. Would he go all Hulk Hogan on him, harass him to keep going? Would he let him off the hook on his first day and show some mercy? Dean’s worst fear was being beaten into an ugly cry on this germ-infested floor. He wanted nothing more than to go home and steep for a few hours in a hot bubble bath.

Castiel’s voice was a deadly whisper when his reply finally came.

“Move that big ass,” he demanded.

He punctuated the remark by smacking his clipboard down, _hard,_ on said ass.

Dean flinched with a small gasp. The slap echoed through the training room, but nobody so much as turned a head at the sound.

With a hoarse “ten more,” Castiel straightened and returned his foot to Dean’s back, though the pressure there was a little lighter than before.

Stinging, sore, and embarrassingly turned on, Dean found his body rebounding and – amazingly – trying to obey the impossible command. With a smile on his face, no less!

The next five months just got a little more interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

Unexpectedly, he’d been signed up for some serious schooling in bro-science.

“What we will do is basic muscle hypertrophy regimen,” Castiel decided, after a battery of tests and a few more questions.

Dean whined and tried to breathe deep. It had been a very rough day for someone whose diet still included pizza three times a week. “You’ll have to forgive me, Cas, but I have no idea what that means.”

Castiel did not seem surprised by this.

Dean had figured out over the course of the day that if given time to mentally rehearse his sentences, Castiel could speak just fine unless he was yelling. His answer came quickly in unbroken English. “We damage your muscle cells and then build them up stronger with protein synthesis. Break the weak parts and start over.”

Dean grimaced. “I really do not like the sound of that. I’m paying you for this?”

“Fergus Crowley is paying me for this,” Castiel corrected.

Dean dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ. You’re fucking serious.”

“I am... serious, yes.”

The plan was to focus on compound movements and big, heavy lifts. Castiel assured him that since there would be more muscles working at once, there would be more stress, more damage, and more build. For the time frame that Dean had to bulk up for this audition, he devised an efficient six-day target isolation schedule. Monday: shoulders. Tuesday: chest. Wednesday: legs. Thursday: arms. Friday: back. Saturday: cardio and core. And then, blessedly, a break on Sunday with an optional 30 minutes of low-intensity cardio.

Yeah fucking right. Castiel Krushnic was a _slave driver._ Dean would take his relief where he could get it.

“Get eight to ten hours sleep a night,” Castiel instructed. “And follow new diet plan. Phase 1 is –”

“Yeah, yeah. I got the cheat sheet,” Dean said, waving his new packet of papers around in the air. Turns out this was what Castiel had been so preoccupied with scribbling while he worked all afternoon. He was instructed to worship this sweaty pamphlet like the bible. “You want me to, like, drink kale. The hell even is kale?” he griped.

Castiel just sighed at him, eyes hooded with boredom. “25 grams protein every meal. Bring snacks for same amount. And protein shake immediately before bed.”

His workout packet got severely crinkled as Dean stuffed it into his gym bag, now scuffed a little on the bottom. “Right. Hydrate. Protein-ate. Can I go home now?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He lowered the clipboard to his side, fisted tightly in one huge hand. Dean actually felt a little afraid.

“If you will not take this seriously, I don’t know why you bother paying me and wasting my time. _Yes_ , you can _go home now_ ,” he snapped as he turned away. It was a clear dismissal if Dean ever heard one.

Dean blinked. “I thought you said Crowley was paying you,” he called after him.

“Otva ‘li, mu ‘dak, b ‘lyad.”

The gym doors wheezed closed behind him.

Dean huffed. “Fine. Fuck you too, then. Geez.”

He took out his phone and dialed Benny’s number. “Pushy bastard,” he added vindictively.

Here’s the thing: Dean knew he wasn’t supposed to sleep with his personal trainer. He understood boundaries. Dean hated him for even existing, and Castiel hated him right back. Castiel wasn’t even attractive either: hairy, rude, dressed like a colorblind aerobics instructor from the ‘80s. That public pool chlorine smell clung to him something awful. He was not capable of a smile. And he was nerdy in a serious way, with his stupid clipboard and his charts and his math – math! in a gym! – all hand-written by the way, because Mr. ‘80s wouldn’t know an Excel sheet if it smacked him on the ass.

And that was the problem. The ass smacking. The meaty thighs. The eye contact. The stupid raised eyebrow. All of it _oozed_ sex appeal, and having that in close proximity for the next several months while having his brain flooded with exercise endorphins just seemed impossible, even if Dean _did_ hate the guy’s guts.

He knew he was going to sleep with Castiel. It was just a question of when.

He was definitely going to have a little fun getting on his nerves first, though. Maybe riling him up would entice passion for something other than “muscle hypertrophy” out of that poorly groomed hippie.

Benny, being the saint he is, had the forethought to stick Indie in the back of his car for Dean to play with when he hopped through the door.

“Hey there, pretty girl! Hi!” Dean cooed, scooping her up and snuggling her in his lap. She put her paws on his sore chest and licked at his face, probably for the salt in the sweat that was still pouring off of him.

Benny just shook his head and cut down the radio. “I still can’t believe you kept that dog.”

Dean made a face at him in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Sam’s apartment wouldn’t let her in. It’s not my fault freaking Ruby didn’t know the pet policy. I couldn’t let her go back to the pound!” He looked back at his wiggly dog’s cute, happy face. “You would have gone to a kill shelter. We couldn’t have that, could we? Could we? Noooo,” he cooed at her.

“That’s creepy,” Benny grumbled at him. “You’re a big softie on the inside, you know that?”

Dean scoffed. “Whatever, man. Dog’s cute.”

Benny held his hands up and let it drop.

“I need a snack. Ugh,” Dean declared. “Something cold and sweet. Jesus.”

As soon as he stepped into his apartment, his cellphone started ringing again. He was really beginning to hate that sound.

He let Indie jump from his arms into the front hallway before attempting to root around for the phone in his bag. After some struggling and ultimately kicking his gym bag into a corner, he grinned when he saw the name on the caller ID.

“Sammy! What’s up, man?”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam yelled into the phone. There was a lot of background noise wherever he was – probably lounging on the beach somewhere with his girlfriend and rocking a puka shell necklace. “You looking to go out tonight? Some friends and I want to try out this new steakhouse place. Live music,” he bribed.

Dean lit up. “Dude, _yes_. That is _exactly_ what I need tonight. I had the worst fucking day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted, walking into his bedroom. God, he smelled. “Started seeing this personal trainer. He’s driving me nuts already.”

Sam laughed. “Seeing like…?”

Dean shook his head and hooked a hand around the back of his damp shirt. “Dude, no. Come on.” His shirt fell to a sad, soggy pile on the floor behind him. “This guy – you wouldn’t believe it, Sam, he’s like straight out of Borat,” he laughed.

Sam laughed with him, loud and boisterous. “Well, hey. Come unwind. It’ll be great! Drinks on me.”

“You’re my hero,” Dean moaned.

“See you later, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The call ended with a quiet beep and Dean grinned to himself as he tossed his phone onto his bed. Following his brother out to California was undoubtedly one of the best decisions he had ever made. Dinner that night promised to be exactly the kind of rest and recovery that his body needed after that clusterfuck of a training session.

But first, a shower. Pamela would be coming over to get him cleaned up soon – he could use a few minutes to himself. He could practically hear that luxury bathroom calling his name.

 

The next morning was utter agony. Maybe he stayed out a little too late with Sam, maybe he drank a little too much, but he was certainly feeling whatever it was when he jerked awake at the loud foghorn of his new 4:30AM alarm. Even Indie looked frightened, ears perked and eyes watery at the foot of the bed.

“Jesus, this is ungodly,” Dean groaned into his hands.

He rubbed his face a few times and collapsed back onto his pillows. There was only a breakfast of raw almonds and oatmeal or whatever to look forward to choking down. He dismissed his alarm and shut his eyes.

“Five more minutes,” he promised.

Over an hour later, Dean stepped through the doors of The Gym. He held a giant iced coffee that was certainly not on his new diet plan in his hand and his big sunglasses were pulled low over his eyes. There were a few people already at work on the floor – more than Dean expected at this hour anyway – but Castiel was laughably easy to spot inside, with his bright blue t-shirt and baggy track jacket. So many clashing colors…

He pushed off the wall that he had been leaning against when Dean sauntered in, arms crossed and mouth twisted up like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“You’re late,” Castiel admonished.

Dean shrugged and shot him a lazy grin. “Send me a bill for the overtime. So what’s first?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and snatched the coffee out of Dean’s hand. “Warm up first. Treadmill,” he instructed, pointing to a machine in the corner. He took a few purposeful steps and threw Dean’s coffee in the nearest trashcan. “Quickly.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “God, you’re grumpier than _me_ in the morning,” he muttered, taking off in the direction of the locker rooms.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, but followed. “Nice glasses. Very flashy,” he mocked.

Dean grinned at him, unperturbed. “Thanks, they’re designer.”

Castiel made a sound of disgust as they reached the locker rooms. “I’m sure they are,” he sneered. He left Dean at the door, and he was honestly glad for the reprieve.

While he definitely wanted to bone the guy, _talking to him_ was another monster entirely. He resolved to do as little of that as possible.

“This is your new routine,” Castiel told him once he resurfaced. “You come in – _on time_ –” cue a now familiar blue glare, “you change, you get on treadmill.”

Castiel pressed a button on the control panel and Dean started to walk in time with the machine rolling beneath his feet. “Walk first. Gradual speed. Do not strain yourself,” Castiel rattled off.

Dean fought off a grimace. He had to squint against the fluorescent lights as he walked, but like hell he would let Castiel know how difficult this was for him. He winked instead of whining. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “It’s Friday. We do back today. Did you memorize your schedule yet?” he asked.

Dean pursed his lips. “Now what do you think, Cas?”

Castiel made an impatient noise and shifted his weight. “Of course you didn’t. Why should I expect otherwise?” he grumbled.

Dean flashed what he thought was a cute smile in his direction.

Castiel pressed a few more buttons on the control panel, shaking his head as he avoided eye contact with his client. “10 minutes walk. See the timer? When it runs out, 30 minutes run. Speed will change.”

He stepped back from the panel and regarded Dean with a solemn, challenging look before he narrowed his eyes. “Try not to fall off.”

Dean continued walking. “I’ll do my best.”

Castiel looked like he was trying to hold in a sigh. “Meet me by the weight rack.”

“And what will you be doing while I run over here?” Dean asked, rolling his neck.

“Not your business,” Castiel promptly replied.

Dean hunched his shoulders. “Mustn’t ask us, not its business,” he hissed.

Castiel just stared at him blankly.

Dean straightened up and frowned. “Come on. Gollum?”

“You are an odd man,” Castiel decided.

Dean flushed as Castiel strode purposefully away. And he maybe stared at his ass a little bit. “Whatever,” he mumbled.

Now, the walking Dean could handle. That wasn’t hard at all. Granted, it _was_ boring as hell. He had nobody to talk to, sequestered in the corner without even the daylight for company this early in the morning. For someone who fed off attention, walking on a lonely treadmill at the ass crack of dawn was the worst kind of punishment.

Just as Dean’s body started growing accustomed to the hypnotic back and forth of his own movements, slowly waking up under the dim fluorescents, the machine kicked into a higher gear so suddenly that Dean nearly brained himself on the handles trying to keep up. “Shit,” he mumbled, practically breaking out into a dead sprint.

(It was just a jog. But the abrupt transition still really rattled him, ok?)

Dean followed an imaginary route up some hills and around some bends, the machine automatically adjusting speed and resistance beneath him. His poor knees ground together in protest. His arches hurt. He had a cramp in his side.

“This is some bullshit warm up,” he panted to himself.

Every time he wanted to give up, Dean forced himself to think of the American Werewolf premiere. Expensive suits, Ryan Seacrest hanging on his every word, cameras in his face, a hot date on his arm, Academy Awards. Talk shows, new celebrity besties, sponsorships out the ass, free shit everywhere he turned. People finally _listening to him_ and caring about his career; finally being important. He’d never have to worry about money ever again.

He let himself live in the dream and used pure spite to fuel him through the route. A combination of fantasy and complaining, he found, gave him reason to keep going instead of sitting flat on his ass and letting the treadmill carry him away.

The machine stopped almost as sharply as it started. Dean was still sweating profusely under his gray hoodie. He leaned over to brace his hands on his knees, taking shallow, gasping breaths into his lungs.

Still, he had a feeling that if he didn’t get his ass over to the weight rack like Castiel had asked, he’d pay for it later. He limped over to the other end of the room, narrowly avoiding the occasional sweaty towel discarded haphazardly on the floor, and paused in front of a wall of mirrors and his surly-looking trainer.

“So,” said Dean. “Do I need a safe word?”

Castiel shook his head. “I will most likely ignore it, like most things that come out of your mouth.”

Dean nearly quirked a smile at that. “Uncool, dude.”

“Follow me,” Castiel instructed. “You will be working with machinery today.”

Dean bit back a smirk and followed Castiel down the floor, glancing at the other people working on strange-looking devices. “Breaking out the kinky stuff already, huh Cas?”

“Please just stop,” Castiel sighed. He came to an abrupt halt, and Dean swerved around him to inspect what he was gesturing to.

“This is a lateral pull down machine,” Castiel explained in a flat, disinterested voice. “Do you know how to use it?”

Dean made a show of pursing his lips. “Let me guess: I pull down? Laterally, perhaps.”

Castiel raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Sit.”

He forced Dean down onto the bench with a firm hand squeezing his shoulder, and Dean went without much resistance.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “The _other_ way.”

Dean frowned. “Ok, ok, geez. Not my fault I don’t know what I’m doing.” Maybe he should have read the workout packet after all.

He spun around, bouncing his knees up and down while he waited for his next instruction. His skin tingled under his shirt – he was hyper aware of Castiel hovering at his back, body heat too close, the faint smell of clean sweat lingering between them both. Castiel’s hands returned to Dean’s shoulders.

“Grab that,” he instructed, almost in a growl.

Dean shivered with that gravelly voice in his ear. He always did have a weak spot for being bossed around.

 _Neither the place nor the time_ , he reminded himself. He had just reached up to grab the metal bar above him when Castiel’s fingers tapped lightly on his arms. The touch was perfunctory, clinical almost, but Dean still shivered, his arms stretched up over his head in a strangely vulnerable position.

Castiel walked around to the front of the machine, where a column of weights lay resting, while Dean tried to find a comfortable grip on the pull down bar. The handle was still cool, with rubber grips on the ends to keep his hands from slipping. He tried not to look intimidated.

“Kay. Now what?”

Castiel slipped the pin out from between two weight stacks and waved it at him. “I’m going to start at… hm. One-fifteen? One-twenty? Try.”

“That sounds like a lot if we’re being honest,” Dean squeaked.

Castiel shrugged. “Don’t be pessimistic. I hope to get you up to the high one-sixties, maybe one-seventies, if possible,” he said.

Dean blew a sharp breath out his nose and tightened his fingers on the bar.

Castiel set the pin and then stepped to the side, crossing his arms as he critically examined the picture Dean made in front of him. “Five sets, decreasing reps. First is twelve. Can you manage that?” Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged clumsily. “We’ll find out.”

With a hum, Castiel’s long fingers tapped against Dean’s wrists. He jumped at the contact, and then mentally chided himself for being so skittish. Blessedly, Castiel didn’t seem to notice.

“Place your hands further apart,” Castiel murmured, directing Dean’s hands with his own, like the hands of a concert pianist and his student, until there was a nice stretch between his shoulders. Castiel retracted his hands.

“Try once to test the weight,” he said.

Blinking, Dean tried to process the request. His brain still skipped like a record at the casual touch; Castiel clearly didn’t understand personal space. “Um. Yeah. Right. Pull down,” he said to himself. He kicked into gear after that, bending his arms enough at the elbows to almost bring them to right angles.

“Wrong. Hold it there,” Castiel said, moving behind Dean again. Dean let out a slow breath, half of his attention on Castiel’s movements and half on the column of weight hovering off of the ground.

It did burn a little, but one-twenty actually didn’t feel much worse. It certainly didn’t feel like his arms were going to snap off or anything. Dean definitely felt more confident than he had a minute ago with just this small amount of practice.

“Hey, you know, this isn’t too bad,” he said. “Maybe we can up the weight.”

A warm hand spread out along his back. It felt damp through his t-shirt.

“Building muscle is not about maximum weight. It is time under tension. If something should be changed, it is rep number,” Castiel replied. “Don’t lean back. Use your shoulders to pull the weight.”

Experimentally, Dean released the bar and tried again, this time pushing against Castiel’s hand with a quiet grunt.

“ _Slowly_ release. Gentle. The weights should not make a sound when you set them down,” Castiel explained.

Dean bit his lip and did as he was told, slowly extending his arms and watching the weights settle together with a barely audible ‘clank.’

Castiel stepped back, and Dean could finally breathe again. “For real this time.”

And so it went. Dean repeated the motion and Castiel counted. Having his back to the wall of mirrors lining the gym limited his ability to watch himself, but Castiel more than picked up the slack. He felt Castiel’s eyes on him the entire time, never drifting away from Dean’s body for more than a second, an incredible amount of focus narrowed in on his form. He offered critique and encouragement in equal amounts.

“Take your time. Don’t get lazy,” he said. Dean wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead but he was afraid that Castiel would yell at him for stopping. So far, he’d managed to keep his trainer relatively calm, if only a bit irritable.

The first few pulls were no trouble at all. As he went, Dean could have sworn that the weights were getting heavier in his hands, slowing him down exponentially as he pulled. By the end of the first set he was grunting a little, and Castiel became much less forgiving.

After all, none of this was supposed to be _easy_.

“Take a rest,” Castiel said with a decisive nod, like he hadn’t been glaring and shouting at him for the last ten minutes. “Maybe we _could_ increase the weight. One-thirty-five?” he asked, like Dean had a fucking choice in the matter.

Dean set down the weights and put his hands on his knees. He definitely regretted suggesting that now; his arms were hot and twitching. Castiel was right; he needed to pace himself so he wouldn’t pull something.

But Dean grit his teeth. He didn’t want to give Castiel the satisfaction. “Whatever you say, asshole,” he muttered instead.

Castiel took pity on him and kept the weight around one-twenty for his next four sets. Even though each time he was doing fewer reps – ten, then eight, then six, then four – Dean felt the same amount of strain every time. It got harder, even when he only had four pulls left. Castiel interjected here and there, instructing him to drop his shoulders or straighten up, but for most of it he just stared at Dean until he felt ready to jump out of his own skin.

When he slammed the weights down for the final time, Castiel still didn’t quit watching him.

“You need practice, but you will improve,” he decided.

“Huh,” Dean huffed. “That could almost be considered a compliment.”

Castiel blinked, slow and unamused. “I would not get used to it. Next?”

Dean whined, but squared his shoulders anyway. _Play through the pain_ , as his dad used to say. _Don’t be a quitter._ “Next.”

Castiel covered Dean’s hands with his own again, and Dean almost sputtered an objection until he felt his fingers being guided closer together.

“Close grip lateral pull downs,” Castiel told him.

Dean sniffed and braced himself.

Second verse, same as the first: six sets, decreasing reps. And then some seated rowing, four sets, followed by a short break for Castiel to force a few protein bars and some Gatorade down Dean’s gullet. The protein bar tasted like sand and cheap honey.

He tried to chew slowly and savor his time off –his shoulders were already aching in an unfamiliar, painful way – but Castiel wasn’t having it. Immediately after his snack he got back to learning how to execute perfect barbell deadlifts (difficult), wide grip pull-ups (impossible), and back extensions.

“I feel like a dead fish,” Dean grunted, red in the face as he precariously held himself up on the edge of the inclined bench. Castiel had perfunctorily deemed him _sloppy, but not completely hopeless._ “I’m going to slip right off this thing.”

“You’re not going to slip, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

Dean understood that’s what a spotter is _for_ , but to hear Castiel say something affirming, exuding patience in his weirdly stoic way, gave him a serious case of whiplash. He’d been criticizing him all morning from his technique to his posture, but he’d never suggested that Dean stop or take another rest. Maybe this is just what he got paid for, but Castiel seemed utterly confident that Dean could do the difficult things asked of him, though he wouldn’t hesitate to step in to help if he needed.

“I know that,” Dean spat. “Jesus.”

Dean quickly squashed any feelings those quick words might have evoked and pushed them far from his mind, focusing instead on the arch of his back and hoping his shirt wasn’t too incriminatingly sweat-stained.

His whole body felt like jelly by the end of the morning and that last protein bar sat like a rock in his stomach, but on the bright side Castiel had only really snapped at him twice over the course of their workout. During a cool down stretch and yoga routine to keep his muscles loose – which involved a lot of embarrassing flailing on Dean’s part as he tried to reach his god damn toes – Castiel barely even said a word.

“How do you feel?” he asked when they were done, watching Dean shake himself out and crack a few joints. He could already feel some serious cramping coming on.

Dean groaned. “Terrible,” he said. “I can’t wait to go home and sleep this off.”

Castiel sighed. “You can go now. Tomorrow we do core and cardio.”

“Ugh. On a Saturday!”

That – there – no – impossible – that might have been a small smile tucked into the corner of Castiel’s hairy lip. And aw geez, that fluttery feeling from earlier came back with a vengeance.

“Don’t forget to record in your food journal this evening. I will be checking it.” He narrowed his eyes with a menacing tilt of his chin. “And I will know if you cheat.”

Dean didn’t doubt it. Castiel looked like the kind of guy who could _smell_ disobedience, but he just didn’t care. “I’m telling you right now: I’m having pork rinds when I get home today.”

“Then you can sweat it out tomorrow.”

Dean glared. “You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I will.” Castiel got that same bored, defeated look on his face that he had on the first day and crossed his arms. “I have another client. Please leave.”

Dean scoffed and headed for the locker room. “I hope they drop a weight on your foot,” he called behind him.

Castiel mumbled something that Dean couldn’t hear, possibly not in English, as Dean disappeared into the locker room. Home free for twenty hours before ultimate pain set in anew.

 

The Gym boasts an extraordinary learning curve. In five workdays, Dean learned more about exercise equipment and muscle groups than he ever imagined existing. He walked a little easier through the doors come Monday morning, almost comfortable on the floor and around other people (who were actually just minding their own business; they didn’t give a shit about Dean or his glaringly obvious lack of prowess), but Castiel managed to ensnare him in some new exquisite form of torture each day. Inclined bench, smith machine, preacher machine, a fucking _four-way neck machine_. “Who’s the genius that dreamt _this_ up?” griped Dean, nodding into the headpiece like a metal-head at a Slipknot show.

In the wall of mirrors lining the back wall behind the weight machines, Dean watched himself lift his own body into midair wearing only shorts and a backwards snapback. He watched himself lay flat on his stomach as he lifted weights with just the bend of his calf muscles. He watched himself curl one hundred and thirty pound dumbbells in tank tops that showed off his arms like the douche-iest of Tinder dudebros. And he did it all with Castiel snapping in his ear about twisting his wrist just so and curling tighter to his chest.

“You’re cheating,” Castiel scoffed. He smacked Dean’s tricep in reprimand and Dean winced.

“What do you mean I’m _cheating_?” Dean hissed back. “I’m doing it exactly like you said!”

Castiel nudged Dean’s instep with the toe of his garish, ugly sneaker. “You’re bouncing up on your toes when you shrug. That is not the point of the lift.”

Dean threw his head back and almost threw down the weights in pure frustration. “I can’t help that! It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose!”

Castiel frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Well it’s _wrong_ , and you’re going to have to think about not doing it,” he said. “Add another set, and this time do it right.”

Dean let a raw, frustrated growl rip from his throat, and firmly plastered his heels to the floor. His trainer’s perfectionism was going to kill him, if not drive him completely insane.

Thus began a horrific cycle of waking, working out, and eating that made Dean feel more like a zombie than the healthy human being he was pretending to be. Every morning at 4:30, Dean would get up to shower and let Indie out. He’d eat a ridiculous, too-healthy breakfast that he refused to enjoy no matter what. Then Benny would drive him to the gym, craving his usual coffee order but settling for a flavored protein shake instead – and then throwing it out halfway through to get an iced coffee anyway. He’d wave to Castiel, waiting for him with a glare, spout off something obnoxious, and get on the treadmill.

He started listening to his iPod as he walked. Running with music was a lot less lonely than running by himself; the booming volume motivated him to push his muscles harder and wake up his aching body anyway. He put together his own playlist exclusively for running, which was something he thought only nerds like Sam and Chris McDougall even bothered with.

Castiel, predictably, hated the playlist. And loudly proclaimed so every chance he got.

“What is that?” he asked on Monday, turning up his nose in Dean’s direction.

Dean scrambled to take out his headphones without tripping over his own feet. “What?” he gasped, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Castiel’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed further. “That,” he said, almost a whine. “It’s very loud.”

Dean furrowed his brow, not understanding. “Oh, my iPod. I made a running playlist.”

God, what an embarrassing sentence. Who had he become?

Castiel pursed his lips. Wiggled his mustache.

“It’s pink.”

“Yeah, so?”

“And that sound is horrible,” Castiel added.

Dean tripped and righted himself with a stormy, accusatory glare, the effect somewhat dampened by his huffing and puffing. “That _horrible sound_ is the greatest rock band in all of music history!”

Castiel tilted his head. “Journey?”

“What? No! Led Zeppelin!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Zeppelins made of lead sound like terrible idea,” he deadpanned, before turning away and leaving Dean to his unexplainable idiosyncrasies.

Sometimes, on the days he didn’t feel like arguing with Castiel about the finer points of classic rock, Dean would just walk in silence, observe the place around him. There weren’t many people on the floor that time of morning (when he actually got in on time), only Castiel and a couple of regulars that had their own routines to attend to. The man in the baseball hat that had brushed by him so rudely on his first day watched him like a hawk from his office when he came in. His name was Bobby and he did not like Dean’s attitude, or the way he sometimes spat his gum on the floor instead of in the trashcan by the door or left weights on the rack instead of picking up after himself. And sometimes, on rare days, there was no one in the gym at all.

Talking to someone would have made him feel sane, feel human again, but it was hard to do when a) he didn’t know anybody here besides Castiel, who didn’t appear interested in talking to him anyway, and b) he was usually too tired or breathless to say much of anything at all.

After the weird thirty or forty minutes of cardio purgatory had passed, Dean would start on his workout for the day.

“Check your email,” Castiel said without warning, the very next Wednesday.

Dean took out his headphones again. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

Castiel fidgeted. Flicked his eyes down from Dean’s for a minute. The falter was so short that Dean could almost believe that he’d imagined it.

“If you insist on listening to noise while you do this, it should be good noise,” he said, pausing over each word carefully.

Dean frowned. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is with Robert Plant, but you can just –”

Castiel rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Never mind. Come find me later, I can’t stand around listening to that.”

Dean didn’t bother to watch him go, and it was only out of sheer curiosity that he discreetly opened up the email application on his phone.

There was a zip file in his inbox from Castiel’s business address full of .mp3s, all named innocuous things like “Track 1” or “untitled.” Dean’s lip ticked up as he downloaded them all. For once, the burn in his lungs and knees was the furthest thing from his mind.

His head snapped up the minute he pressed play. “Adele?” he shouted.

“Her voice is exceptional!” Castiel shouted back.

Dean shook his head, but he left it on. Adele faded into some Swedish alt rock thing, into Queen, into surprisingly not bad musical taste. He returned his phone to his armband, and was almost disappointed when his treadmill stopped before he reached the end of Castiel’s playlist.

Almost.

Sam, of course, was annoyingly supportive in all of this. Scratch that. Dean’s brother was the _worst._ He took one look at Dean’s workout packet and ran straight for his stupid hybrid car. They drove down to _Whole Foods_ of all the ungodly places in this world and Sam strong-armed him into getting everything on Castiel’s list, right down to the very last chia seed.

The food was crunchy and bitter, mostly. _Fuck_ Swiss chard. Barely a week into it, Dean decided that he never wanted to look at another chicken breast ever again. Everything he loved had to go, and between Sam and Castiel, he made sure it did. No more mayo on his sandwiches, no more chips and snack foods, no more candy or ice cream. The hard, reflective cover of his new food journal mocked him from the counter every morning. _Raw almonds,_ Jesus.

The one luxury he could allow himself? Ketchup. He put that shit on everything. Oh, the sugar, the taste – heavenly on his useless, salty tongue. His abused and complacent taste buds. Tupperware full of chicken and rice smothered in the stuff got shoved into his gym bag for lunch. Castiel made a revolted face when Dean yanked it out, shoveling it into his mouth with great enthusiasm and a plastic spork.

(“You eat fucking _borscht,_ you commie bastard,” Dean had rebutted.)

An unforeseen consequence: no amount of ketchup in the world was going to help him like the new feeding schedule. Dean was a grazer by nature. He ate all day, whatever he wanted, in amounts that suited him. Castiel’s diet plan was practically designed to sabotage him. He got in the gym every morning before 6:00AM, already stuffed so full of grains and protein and veggie smoothies and yogurt that the treadmill warm up run really did make him break out into a sweat. He threw up a few times. Had to dash off the treadmill for the trashcan by the door and hurl that Beautifully Balanced Breakfast right into a bag. It happened more than once. It happened more than Dean would have ever liked it to happen.

“Breakfast Of Champions” Dean’s flat, squishy ass.

It’s not like Castiel was sympathetic to his plight, either. He usually just glared at Dean for stepping off of the treadmill and throwing off his schedule. Every minute that Dean went over their allotted time, Castiel had to stay behind and make up with him.

At least they both had a common goal: get Dean out of The Gym as quickly as possible.

“You’re not doing that right.”

Dean grunted and refused to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Well, how am I supposed to be doing it, then?”

Castiel tapped his foot. Once, twice. Dean wanted to throw the barbell in his hands right down on top of it. “Push your hips back more. Bend knees lower.”

Dean ground his teeth and pasted on a fake, camera-ready smile. He stuck his ass out and fluttered his lashes. “Like this?” he asked huskily.

Castiel sighed. “Don’t be coy.”

“You started it,” Dean snapped. He spread his legs a little further apart and dipped lower. “There, ok? How’s that?”

Castiel clicked his tongue. “Not bad.”

Dean would have blown a raspberry at him, but his sweaty hands were slipping on the bar a little and he very much wanted to make it out of that deadlift with all his bones intact, thank you.

It was his one small pleasure in life, making Castiel uncomfortable. Teasingly stripping out of his hoodie after his run, extending his legs out a little further under Castiel’s nose as they stretched.

“How am I doing?” he’d ask, leaning over to give Castiel a good look at his chest.

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he artfully blurted out: “You supinate.”

Dean blinked. “I what?”

Castiel nodded down at his feet. Dean followed his eyes. “Your legs bow outwards. So your feet roll out when you walk. It will cause problems for you. You need shoes with better ankle support,” he explained.

Dean frowned and tried not to look self-conscious. “Right.”

A smirk spread slow and easy across his face. “So you like lookin’ at my legs?”

Dean tried very hard not to laugh out loud at Castiel’s resulting eye roll and accompanying blush. Slowly but surely, he was wearing him down.

There was nothing wrong with stepping it up a little though, surely.

 

“Dean,” Castiel hissed one Saturday.

The Gym was packed on weekends. Dean had anticipated this. Counted on it, in fact.

Dean turned. Wiped his brow. “Yes?”

Castiel’s face was flushed. His eyes ticked down to Dean’s chest, then back up as guilty as could be. “[You can’t wear that in here.](https://www.spreadshirt.com/oki-ll+jerk+you+clean-A12863244?department=1&productType=210&color=FFFFFF&appearance=1&view=1)”

Dean frowned and plucked at the material of his shirt. “Why not?” he asked sweetly. “It’s not bothering anybody, _is it_?”

Castiel grit his teeth; Dean could see his jaw clench and his cheeks redden before his very eyes. It was kind of incredible. “ _Dean._ ”

Dean shrugged and reached for the hem, gently trailing his fingertips along the edges of the printed words: _Ok… I’ll Jerk You Clean._ “Alright,” he sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to… take it off.”

“Dean, for God’s sake,” Castiel despaired.

Dean snickered and released the shirt. “Ok, alright, fine. I’ll keep it on. Just for you, Cas,” he sang.

Castiel grumbled a little to himself as he stalked away, face flaming, and Dean smirked after him.

Castiel managed to go the rest of the morning without making another comment about the wildly inappropriate shirt. Dean kept trying to catch his eye, antagonize him a little, but Castiel avoided his gaze at nearly every opportunity. Until, that is, Dean’s last set of tricep extensions for the day.

The remark was impossibly casual as Castiel spotted Dean’s careful dropping motions. He delivered it with the utmost precision and delicacy, like a master wordsmith crafting verbal art ex nihilo, as Dean sunk a dumbbell behind his shoulder in what could be construed as an obscene gesture.

Castiel said, “You should tighten your grip on that. You won’t satisfy me otherwise.”

Dean froze, eyes wide. His hands felt sweaty all of a sudden, tight fist wrapped around the thick rod of metal suddenly slipping. “Did – Did you just – ?”

But Castiel had already swaggered away, smirk in place, obnoxiously pleased with himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Messing with Castiel became the one bright spot in Dean’s long, long days. Despite all the fun he was having harassing his personal trainer, the actual training thing? It got old real fast.

Dean still had a whole life to live outside The Gym. He still had to endure teen magazine photoshoots that lasted well into the night, and then run around to auditions all over town to dance like a monkey for thankless casting directors the next day. He still had to walk Indie. He still made time to get dinner with Sam and Ruby. He had to do a million other things too just as part of being a responsible adult living on his own, like laundry and answering his emails. Dean really began to resent taking time out of his day to trek to the Whole Foods that was well outside his neighborhood, to prepare and choke down food he didn’t even like, to go to bed early to wake up for his absurd alarm in the morning. No more late nights out on the club circuit meant that his personal life suffered too. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone in weeks. Gordon must have left him six or seven voice messages before he finally gave up on inviting him places. Dead silence and more isolation.

What the hell was he doing this for again? A part that he probably wouldn’t even get?

At the end of every session, Castiel still asked Dean how he was feeling. He knew it was only for diagnostic purposes, but the question made Dean’s blood boil even more than the endless demands on his time did. He wasn’t allowed to eat cheeseburgers anymore, he had constant dehydration headaches and shin splints, he was literally _breaking down his muscles_ every morning, he had some guy breathing down his neck telling him that he was doing everything wrong all the time – how was he supposed to feel?

Dean liked to pretend that he was good at hiding his true feelings, but anyone who knew him could tell you it was a lie. Needless to say, his frustration eventually boiled over.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Castiel asked. Perfunctory, disinterested, without eye contact. As usual. Like Dean was just gum on the bottom of his shoe that needed to be dealt with.

Dean fumed. _Well, I’ll fucking tell you, asshole!_

“Sore,” Dean snapped. “And tired, and frustrated, and guess what? I have to do it all again tomorrow.”

Castiel looked up and blinked, clearly not expecting the outburst. Dean didn’t usually voice his complaints – especially not so aggressively – or, when he did, he did so under his breath so Castiel could easily ignore them. He took in Dean’s red face, his clenched jaw.

“You need to relax,” he said slowly.

Dean squared his shoulders. “Yeah? Well any time you want to give me a hand with that, you let me know.”

With that, he knocked past Castiel, shouldering him out of his way, and stomped into the locker room. Castiel, still processing and trying to piece together a potential reason for Dean’s uncharacteristically bad mood, was too stunned to even follow.

Too strung out to even think about getting in Benny’s car, Dean bolted straight for the showers. Maybe the hot water would loosen up the knots in his shoulders, or at least help to bring down his off-the-charts temper.

He stripped quickly and agitatedly. His own skin was itchy and uncomfortable, and he would have peeled out of that too if he could. The water took a while to heat up, but Dean stepped in headfirst anyway. He ducked his head and closed his eyes against the spray, exhaling sharply through his nose as he tried to clear his mind.

Time kept moving, but Dean wasn’t sure how for long. He was brought back to himself when a warm hand landed on his hip.

He recognized the shape of it instantly.

“What are you doing,” Dean murmured, nearly inaudible over the rushing water and rattling pipes.

Castiel gently turned him so they were face-to-face, and leaned in close. He smiled, calm and confident and just a tad bit mischievous.

“Giving you a hand.”

Dean didn’t resist when Castiel’s mouth landed on his. His lips parted under Castiel’s tongue and he wasted several seconds just parsing out the feeling of making out with a guy with a mustache. Angry embers sizzled in his blood, sparks jumped between them. Dean’s heart thumped with the relief of this, the culmination of exhausting weeks spent waffling between wanting and not-wanting, the open avenue for tension release, but another part of him still simmered with irritation because of everything Castiel just had to be _._

“You keep making jokes about this,” Castiel whispered, pulling back for just a moment. His thumb drew a small circle on Dean’s bare hip. “You want it, yes?”

Dean kept his eyes closed and bucked up into the touch. God, he hadn’t been with another person in what felt like forever. He’d been too tired – maybe that was why he’d been so cranky lately? His dick made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I want it.”

Castiel surged closer in an instant, biting at Dean’s lower lip and squeezing Dean’s cock with his free hand. Dean let out a groan as Castiel backed him up against the tile. He scrabbled along the wet surface to shut off the water.

Dean heard Castiel hum as deft, exploratory fingers trailed along the softest parts of him. “You’re very sensitive,” he observed. Dean bit back a whine and shoved up into the slick circle of Castiel’s fist.

He grazed just the barest hint of teeth along Dean’s pulse point, drawing tiny sounds from Dean’s throat like venom from a wound as he pumped his fist. Dean sagged a little, sore muscles still cramped and stinging, but Castiel hitched his leg up around his waist to hold him up. The hand at his hip skittered down and back until a blunt thumb was scraping against Dean’s hole.

Dean came with a whine and a full-body shudder right into Castiel’s hand. Castiel stroked him through it, murmuring praise into his ear. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Castiel thought about as he studied his body on the weight machines, flicked his gaze over every inch of him in the mirrors at the end of a set. Everybody else he knew looked at him that way, like meat; it appeared that Castiel was no exception.

Once his breathing evened out, Dean nudged his leg up as high as it was capable of going and slot Castiel’s clothed erection to the hollow of his hip. He let another soft, encouraging moan and tipped his head back. He could be whatever fantasy Castiel imagined him to be, no problem. Gladly even.

Castiel rocked himself to completion like that, right there in the gym showers with his shorts still on and pressed tight against his damp and trembling client. He bit down on Dean’s shoulder as his body locked up and Dean dug his nails into his back to hold him there.

Castiel stumbled back after what felt like only a minute, taking his attentive hands back with him, unfortunately for Dean. Their eyes locked, intense as ever. Castiel wiped his hand on his shorts.

“Ew,” Dean chastised.

“They are a lost cause anyway,” Castiel retorted.

Dean couldn’t keep the smug smile off his face. “Because you burst in here fully clothed, you weirdo. Desperate, much?”

Castiel just shrugged. “Do you feel better now?”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, sure. Don’t you have another client to harass?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and left the shower without another word.

Back to normal.

Or, at least, a new normal that consisted of Dean jerking it at night to the thought of blue eyes, watching Castiel wrap his wide and beautiful hands around weights, and trying not to remember the sounds he made when he came against Dean’s thigh.

 

Dean never apologized for snapping at him, but he and Castiel quickly returned to their normal, bantering selves – albeit with some heavy looks swapped now and again.

“So, how’d you get into personal training anyway?” Dean asked, chewing his rice with his mouth open. A few grains spewed out onto his lap and he casually brushed them away.

Castiel’s face was carefully blank, betraying nothing. He sat a few feet away engrossed in a copy of _Sports Illustrated_ , but he lifted his eyes when Dean addressed him.

“I noticed that Americans were fat and insecure, and also very rich,” he explained. “I am capable of simple math.”

Wow.

Dean blinked, and he couldn’t tell whether Castiel was kidding or not. “That’s a real tear-jerker there, Cas. A real inspiring sob story.”

Castiel shrugged and went back to reading his magazine.

Dean laughed to himself and reached for his bottle of Gatorade. “You really are an asshole, huh?”

“So you are fond of saying.”

Dean downed a few gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on, man, really. You can tell me.”

Castiel stood. “Actually, I think your break is over.”

Dean sighed, took three greedy sips of his sports drink, and stood. “Fine.” He dusted off his hands and followed Castiel back to the weight rack.

He snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering something on his mental checklist.

“Oh, right, hey. That portion scale you told me to get is all messed up,” Dean said.

Castiel turned back to look at him, a frown on his face. “Messed up how?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I broke it. The screen goes blank after I turn it on. Kind of need that.”

With a considering sound, Castiel paused in front of a machine in that expectant way that meant Dean needed to get started. “It could be that the… what is the word – the _pan_ isn’t installed correctly,” he told Dean.

He shrugged again. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not an expert.”

“I could take a look,” Castiel offered.

Things hadn’t really changed between them since the impromptu hand job in the showers but... wasn’t this crossing some kind of line? Castiel just offered to come over to his _apartment_.

Dean hesitated. “I kind of have a lunch thing later. Don’t you have other clients after me?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head. “Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Dean pursed his lips, met Castiel’s clear and unwavering eyes, and thought about it.

“Ok. Sure. Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel shrugged. They didn’t speak about it again until after Dean pulled out of his last deep stretch.

“Um, so, yeah, I – usually get picked up. After this,” Dean told him, scratching self-consciously behind his ear.

Castiel shrugged. “I have a car. I could –”

“Great, yep, ok. You drive.”

Castiel’s car was just as odd-looking and off-kilter as he was: a beat up, used thing that smelled like cigarettes and stained leather. A pimp car. “Dude,” Dean admonished, wrinkling his nose.

Castiel rolled his eyes, but he did hold open the car door for Dean, like he was a lady or some shit.

“Just get in,” he grumbled. “I know it isn’t what you’re used to.”

Dean grumbled, but did as he was told.

The drive was quiet and kind of fascinating; Dean had never been allowed a glimpse of the inside of Castiel’s life before, and he had just entered an intimate, personal space of his. For once, Dean had the upper hand. He was oddly disappointed to see nothing of real significance in the car: no stickers, no dashboard figurines, no trash on the floor aside from an empty Dasani bottle that had been placed in the driver’s side cup holder. He popped the glove compartment and started rooting around. Castiel didn’t object, and Dean didn’t find anything interesting.

Dean led him up the stairs to his apartment and shoved his gym bag into Castiel’s hands once they got to the door. “Could you hold this for a second?”

Castiel grunted, took the bag, and watched Dean dig his keys out of the side pocket before clumsily shoving them into the lock.

“You can just drop that anywhere,” Dean told him as they walked in – Dean totally at ease, Castiel looking around with mild interest from the doorway.

_Woof!_

Castiel froze, eyebrows raised, as Indie came trouncing to the hall. She froze when she saw Castiel, too, and sounded off a few yippy warning barks in his direction.

Even so, her tail was wagging so furiously that she wiggled around on the floor.

“Aw,” Dean said. “Come on, Indie, he’s not so bad! Come here, honey.”

He scooped the tiny dog up off the floor and held her in one arm, turning back to Castiel. He didn’t look afraid, just… curious. Wisely keeping his distance from a wary animal.

“Hey, you don’t mind, do you?” Dean asked. “She’s sweet, I promise.”

Castiel smiled and set Dean’s gym bag carefully by the door. “I don’t mind. I like dogs.”

He came closer to Dean and reached up to scratch under Indie’s chin. The little Spaniel shut her eyes and leaned into his hand, forgetting all her earlier objections.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Some guard dog you are,” he muttered.

Castiel smiled and glanced up at him. “What’s her name?”

Dean’s reply got stuck in his throat – Castiel looked softer, somehow. Less intense than usual. Not demanding or immovable, like the professional he usually had to be, but more like a person. A person that exercised too much and liked Dean’s dog and did him favors even though Dean was generally sort of a brat.

“Indie,” he said. “You know. ‘We named the _dog_ Indiana.’ Like the movie.”

Castiel frowned at him. “I don’t know what movie you mean.”

Dean threw his head back with a groan, careful not to jostle his dog and the man attached to her. “Cas, seriously? Indiana Jones. Indie.”

Castiel just sighed and stood up a little straighter, abandoning the dog for now. “So about your scale problem?”

“Oh, right.”

Dean led him into the kitchen and set Indie down on the floor near her water bowl so he could point the malfunctioning portion scale out, looking sad and abandoned on the counter.

“That’s it,” Dean said.

Castiel frowned and touched it a few times, fiddling with the stainless steel pan on the top. Dean was afraid he was going to break the damn thing even more, but after a short while the little counter reset itself to its usual 0.00, and Castiel stepped back to grin at him.

“See? Easy fix.”

Dean nodded, impressed. “Huh. Yeah, real easy. Thanks, man.”

They stared at each other from opposite ends of the small kitchen, still as statues, barely blinking. Dean licked his lips. Castiel broke their eye contact to track the movement.

“Well, since you’re here…” Dean trailed off.

“No, I should get back,” Castiel said, though he didn’t seem to have a compelling argument as to _why_. His voice drifted into nothing, lost in his own head, staring at Dean’s mouth.

Dean blinked. “There’s a bed here, you know.”

Castiel blinked back, dazed, and said, “Oh. Yes.” He offered nothing more.

Dean closed his eyes in exasperation. “Cas.”

“Hm?”

“C’mere.”

“Ok.”

They met in the middle of the room, noses bumping awkwardly as they both tried to angle their heads into the kiss with too much enthusiasm. Then Castiel’s hands were suddenly everywhere, trailing up to Dean’s shoulders and squeezing before moving onto his chest, his sides. Dean just held on tight for the ride.

“Bed?” Castiel reminded him, a little breathlessly just from feeling Dean up in his own kitchen.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Dean murmured, pressing himself closer. “Wait, hang on. I want to try something.”

Castiel groaned, and Dean tapped the back of his thigh. He stumbled a little under the weight of Castiel jumping up into his lap and wrapping his legs around his waist, but Dean successfully walked them both to the bedroom after taking a moment to collect himself. He even had the foresight to knock the bedroom door shut with his foot so that Indie couldn’t follow, all while making out with his eyes closed. He chuckled to himself as Castiel’s hands raked through his hair.

“Have you been working out?” Castiel murmured, sucking on his earlobe.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean laughed, tumbling after Cas onto the bed.

For now, this thing with Cas could stay relatively uncomplicated. Convenient, even. Castiel’s eyes were dark and hooded the next day at the gym, and all Dean had to do was smirk at him a little to reel him in closer, to be rewarded with a soft touch along his arm or the back of his neck where no one else would see. This was good, this was easy.

No one even had to know.

 

Dean put down his bag beside the treadmill, and Castiel shook his head at the window behind him. “That big man that follows you in here – I wonder how much he can press.”

Dean swallowed a quick burst of laughter as he bent down to re-lace his sneakers. “What, Benny? I don’t know, actually. You should ask him.”

Castiel tilted his head. “He is your… chauffeur?”

Dean smiled fondly and straightened up, shaking out his ankles and his shoulders. “Bodyguard. But, yeah. He drives.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, so indiscreetly that Dean actually caught him in the act. “Why would you need bodyguard? From what I understand, you are not very famous.”

Dean bristled. “Famous enough for some people. I had a problem last year with a fan. Benny’s had my back ever since.”

The laugh that cut through the air was low, throaty, and untroubled. “A stalker?” Castiel scoffed.

“Kind of, I guess,” Dean replied. It came out somewhat muffled. He wiped his palms against his shorts even though they weren’t sweating.

Castiel put a hand on his shoulder and guided him forward. “I’m sure you appreciated the attention.”

Dean swallowed against the sudden weight that settled in his throat. Sure, he wanted to be noticed; but the feeling of being watched all the time, never being able to relax, looking over his shoulder and deciding it would be better to just not go out at all - it felt as real as it had back then even though a lot of time had passed since then. Some things just stay with you, not that anyone could understand. Sam had basically said the same thing Castiel did when it had all gone down.

Dean tried to muster up a laugh, joke it off like he’d done before, but if anything it was just sad and strangled sounding. He turned his eyes down to the floor.

“Ha. Yeah.”

Castiel stepped back and Dean felt him stop entirely. He swiveled, and caught a curious look on Castiel’s face before it disappeared, slipping back behind that cool demeanor he usually carried. Dean raised an expectant eyebrow.

Castiel only shook his head. “Let’s do squats.”

Dean was glad to let the matter drop.

 

Castiel whole-heartedly endorsed The Gym’s strict “no cell phones” policy while on the floor. A laminated sign, complete with clip-art and emojis, hung by the front door.

At first, Dean felt like he was going to die – he’d have given anything to troll the Internet on his breaks – but by late May he found that he actually didn’t mind. For one thing, he was no longer under any obligation to deal with Crowley, who seemed more determined than ever to pad Dean’s CV before he hit the ripe old age of thirty. Without his phone, he had nothing to distract him from his body’s motion, except for the meditative headspace he retreated into during his sets. Rejuvenating, almost. Like a nap. Almost halfway through June, Dean left the gym one day and nearly walked right back in again. Runner’s high was definitely real and Dean definitely felt it.

Less and less often Dean reached for his phone in the afternoons, choosing instead to hold on to that precious silence for a little longer.

It probably wasn’t on purpose, but Castiel had this way of making him feel silly for feeling the way that he did about it. For feeling good about his progress.

“What does Crowley have planned for your afternoon?” he asked.

Dean grimaced. “Nothing. I have the day off. What, you think I just go wherever he tells me?” he asked, affronted. The idea bothered him a considerable amount.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Sort of. It’s why you’re here now, isn’t it?”

Dean scoffed. Ran through ten different possible replies before settling on none at all.

Crowley may have sent him here, ordered him around like one of his employees, a doll to pose in whatever form was most flattering, but _Dean’s_ sweat slicked the backs of his knees. _Dean’s_ breath fogged up the mirror in the mornings. Dean’s effort, Dean’s hands, Dean’s muscles straining hard and pulled taut, proving and breaking the limits of human performance.

His body, his gains, his attitude. His hard work. His success.

“I don’t think so,” Dean replied at last.

It felt greedy for a second, to take credit and responsibility for this change in him. But no one forced Dean to push himself the way he had been. Castiel hung around for safety and encouragement. Why should he want Crowley’s name attached to everything he worked for in life?

What was so hard to get about the fact that he bleeds and hurts and busts his ass just like anybody else?

Castiel must have noticed the pride stiffening Dean’s upper lip, the angry clench of his fists. He nodded. His eyes were cut from steel.

“Uh, good. So what will you do?” he asked cordially, like he really hadn’t read Dean’s body like the instruction manual that all bodies are.

Dean squared his shoulders and inhaled sharply. Powerfully.

“I’m going to take a long shower and watch crummy medical dramas on my big-ass TV and I am going to _relax_ ,” he growled, tense and not at all relaxed.

Castiel’s lips twitched at their corners. “That sounds nice.”

“You’re goddamn right it does!”

Dean set a personal best that day.

Cas and Crowley could both eat it.

 

Slowly, the reps in his last set of rear delt cable raises started to dwindle. Castiel had him bent over slightly, snapping “syem, shest, pyat, chye-tir-ye, tree, dvat, a-deen” dangerously close to his ear, hunched over him, and Dean slammed the weights back down with a shout. He spun. Fisted his hand in the side of Castiel’s shirt. His hormone-rattled brain fired impulse after impulse.

Castiel’s eyes were cautious, and burning. “Not now,” he warned quietly. Brought back to himself, Dean remembered the other people standing around them, the wide windows open to the street.

Reluctantly, he peeled his fingers away from the soft material of Castiel’s t-shirt. He nodded, panting, and ducked his head to give him a dark look. “My place after.”

“Ok,” he said. Just like that, agreeable as you please. Unusual for him, considering he was such a hard ass ninety percent of the time.

He rode Castiel quick and hard when they got to his apartment, wasting no time stripping down and spinning around so that Cas had no choice but to watch the muscles in Dean’s back ripple as he ground down in his lap. He could apparently only take so much before Castiel rolled them over and took Dean on his hands and knees like he nearly had at the gym.

Later, Dean stretched out on his Egyptian cotton sheets, loose-limbed and still a little dizzy, and groaned.

“It’s the Russian,” he declared, apropos of nothing. “Reminds me of a masseuse I had once.”

He snuggled deeper into a pillow and frowned to himself. “Or maybe a _video_ I watched once with a masseuse. I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Behind him, Castiel almost laughed. “I can do that,” he murmured. He put his hands on Dean’s shoulders and squeezed experimentally at the base of his neck.

Dean tensed with a sharp hiss. “Ah, ah! Be gentle! I’m fragile,” he whined.

Castiel just scoffed as he began to rub his aching muscles. Between the orgasm and the massage, Dean was floating near sleep embarrassingly quickly. His eyelids drooped. He lost all sense of time.

“You did well today,” Castiel said at last. “Fifteen past your usual limit.”

“You sly bastard,” Dean said accusatorily, though it came out more as a sated slur. _That feels niiiice._ “I knew I didn’t miscount.”

“Yes, you were right,” Castiel acquiesced. He pressed a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. He placed the next one between his shoulder blades. “You’re very strong.”

God damn, that refractory period. Dean still felt bulldozed from their first round, but Castiel seemed intent on riling him up all over again. “Keep talking,” Dean replied, breathlessly. “Fucking accent. Say something to me in Russian.”

“Ya khochu, chtoby lizat' pot s vashego tela.”

Dean hummed happily, rut a little bit against the soft sheets. “Hey, how come you’re not jacked from doing this, anyway?”

“I do not lift much. I am endurance runner.”

“Like marathons and shit?”

“Yes, now be quiet. You are very noisy.”

Dean grinned. “I like it loud.”

Castiel scoffed. “Yes, I noticed. Knees up.”

Dean happily complied.

Castiel only followed him home occasionally after that first time. The plus side of fucking around in a gym was that they had a lot of room to get creative. One very memorable instance involved bending Dean over a rubber exercise ball, pinning his dick between the ribbed rubber surface and his tensed, toned belly while Castiel pushed into him over and over again. Dean’s wrists were wrapped tight behind his back so he couldn’t touch himself, stabilized in a Theraband pulled tight in Castiel’s fist. He came in record time, even though he kept slipping and sliding all over the unstable surface of the ball. Castiel, true to his word, made sure he didn’t roll off.

It was easiest to plan for Sunday, when Dean didn’t have much going on. Sunday was _their_ day. The time for the clothes to come off, the time to explore their bodies in different, exciting ways without a clock running or a plan in motion or an agenda to speed through.

So, tragically enough, it looked like Dean would be taking Castiel up on that optional Sunday cardio after all.

He couldn’t find it in himself to complain much about it.

 

Father’s Day came and went. It fell on a chest day that year, and Dean thought for the brief moment he happened to glance at his calendar that it was probably a little poetic that way.

Small changes became noticeable here and there. Dean almost made himself late one morning flexing in the mirror and taking selfies. His follower count on Instagram had been steadily increasing to the point that Dean couldn’t even remember what it had been before.

Sam teased him mercilessly about it, of course.

“I can’t believe this. My big brother’s turned into a gym rat,” he despaired via Skype one morning.

Dean grinned and tilted his computer screen so Sam could see the full expanse of his messy kitchen counter. “You’re just mad because for the first time in ten years, I have more muscle than you,” he teased.

Sam scoffed, though the sound crackled weirdly from his laptop speakers. “Yeah, right,” he said, trying to mask his irritation. “What are you even doing, anyway?”

In lieu of an answer, Dean pressed down his blender. It came to life with a noisy whir for a few minutes, and then Dean smacked the sides so Sam could watch the viscous sludge slide down to the bottom: a frothy brownish-green.

“Dude,” said Sam. His hippie brother _wrinkled his nose_. “What the hell is _that_?”

Dean smiled ruefully as he upturned the blender into his to-go bottle. “Diet Greek yogurt, banana slices, apples, protein powder, spinach, few other things.”

He shook the bottle a little and took in Sam’s skeptical frown. “Cas _claims_ this stuff won’t taste like ass. It doesn’t look so bad.”

Sam watched on in horrified disbelief as Dean took a slow gulp from the bottle. He smacked his lips a few times, kept his face carefully blank, and announced, “I was wrong.”

Sam leaned back and laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Ugh,” was Dean’s only reply, as he choked down another mouthful of smoothie.

Sam was still laughing. “You just have to hold your nose and swallow.”

“That’s what he said,” Dean replied, taking another drink. He squeezed his eyes shut against the taste and shook his head while Sam bitched at him. “This is so gross,” he lamented.

“Hey, you’re the one that wants to play the meathead characters on TV,” Sam told him. “It’s your own fault you’re a cliché. You did this to yourself.”

Dean grimaced and stacked his blender in the sink to wash later. “I hate this.”

A curious little smile started creeping up one side of Sam’s face. Even his little dimple came in, and Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“What?” he asked. “Why are you giving me that look?”

Sam shrugged, but the smile didn’t go away. “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re taking care of yourself. You do look good, you know.”

Dean winked at him. “Feel good, too.”

The smile only widened. “Great. I’m really glad, Dean. Thanks to _Cas,_ I guess.”

Dean hesitantly lowered his smoothie. “Are you mocking me for something?”

Sam shook some hair out of his eyes. “Nope, no, not at all.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, not believing a single word.

Sure enough, Sam’s smile widened to expose his teeth. “You’ve never tried the smoothies that _I’ve_ recommended,” he accused.

Dean scoffed and turned away under the guise of getting some ice, but mostly he just wanted to hide the blush that he knew was crawling up his cheeks. “It’s not like I have a choice with him, come on!”

Sam made a high-pitched sound of disagreement. “I don’t know… it _seems like_ he’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

“Just! Shut your face.”

He and Sam hung up after some more playful teasing so Dean could make his gym appointment, but Sam’s words stuck in his head for the rest of the day. _You look good._ The earnestness with which Dean had replied – _I feel good_ – had come from the most open and truthful part of himself.

“Hey. Hey, hey,” Dean pestered, punching Castiel in the arm after his treadmill run. “Squeeze my arm,” he demanded.

Castiel raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Come on! Squeeze it!” Dean insisted.

Castiel rolled his eyes, but did lift a hand to Dean’s bicep. “Yes, very nice,” he complimented.

Dean positively beamed and practically skipped back to the rowing machine from whence he came.

Castiel’s gravelly voice chased after him. “But do not get complacent! You still have much to do!”

 _Yeah,_ Dean thought. _I’m hot shit._

 

Sure that Dean could take more strain (and struggling to find a challenge that he wouldn’t meet), Castiel ordered him to walk to training at least once a week. Only a few miles separated Dean’s apartment from the gym, but the summer heat had Dean sweating like a pig before he even had to start training.

On the plus side, walking meant that he could usually dart into a Starbucks en route and gulp down a frappuccino without Castiel ever finding out.

Yeah, so he fudged his food journal from time to time. So what? It wasn’t like it was a habit. Most of the time, Dean stuck to the rules with admirable attention. In the last few weeks, he’d been seeing some amazing results – toned arms, firmer middle, little things like that. He slept sounder and woke up more energized. Turned out that Castiel wasn’t really talking out his ass: the regimen was working. He gave Dean rules for a reason and he knew what he was doing.

So when Dean was standing in line at the coffee shop in early July and an employee just happened to set out a tray of red velvet whoopie pies in the display case, he actually felt guilty for craving one.

“Good morning, sir. What can I get you?” the cashier asked him.

Dean barely heard her as he stared longingly at the fluffy desserts. The edges of thick swirls of cream cheese icing glinting under the soft lights, the crisply folded translucent wrapper hinting at the flaky, chocolaty goodness packed beneath, the dainty decorative ribbons of red icing across the light and fluffy cap were all so tantalizing. Dean’s mouth watered, and he gulped.

Normally, he would have tacked one or two onto his order without even thinking about it. But that morning, his eyes darted up to the menu board instead. _190 Calories,_ the sign taunted. _FIVE GRAMS SAT FATS,_ his brain screamed.

_Cas would want you to walk away._

“Sir? Your order?” the cashier prodded.

Dean whined a little in the back of his throat. “Just an Iced Passion Tango tea lemonade, thanks.”

The cashier clicked a few buttons. “And what size?”

_Venti!_

“Grande,” Dean forced his mouth to say.

The cashier smiled at him, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “That’ll be $3.94,” she said cheerfully.

Dean handed over a five-dollar bill, pocketed his change, and took one last longing look at the whoopie pies before drifting over to the counter.

 _It’s worth it_ , he promised himself. _Think sugary thoughts._

Moral righteousness and steadfast conviction didn’t taste nearly as good as that dessert might have, but at least Dean could say that he was stronger than his temptations. And that had to count for something.

 

“Ok, I’d like to lodge a formal complaint,” came Dean’s pitched, irritated voice.

Castiel had to lean backwards from the assault. Dean was all up in his face, brow furrowed in a way that a lesser man might have called ‘cute.’

“If this is about my jackets again…” Castiel warned, by now used to Dean’s relentless teasing.

Dean shook his head agitatedly. “No, it’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, with a certain level of trepidation.

Dean adjusted his stance and put his hands on his hips. “My nice slacks. They don't fit anymore.”

Castiel quirked an eyebrow. “You’re putting on muscle in new places. That’s what you want.”

Dean fidgeted. “Well, yeah, but I guess I didn’t really think about the fact that I was going to need a whole ‘nother wardrobe when this was over with!”

Castiel held in the laugh threatening to burst out; the whine in Dean’s voice was just too precious.

“It’s not funny!” Dean argued, with an annoyingly earnest expression.

Castiel nodded and schooled his expression to something a little more professional. The crease between Dean’s brows still remained, so he said, “Ok. Show me, yes? Sometimes when bodies start changing, clothes begin to finally fit like _they are supposed to._ You are just used to wearing ill-fitting ones,” as soothingly as possible. “You have the pants?”

Dean nodded and lifted up his gym bag. “Yeah. Now?”

“Now.” Castiel shrugged. “Or else you’ll be pissy for rest of appointment.”

“I’m never _pissy_ ,” Dean sniffed, already heading for the locker rooms.

At his back, Castiel rolled his eyes. “You are,” he insisted.

“Whatever. Wait here,” Dean instructed, leaving Castiel in the main corridor as he turned into one of the curtained changing stalls.

“And bossy!” Castiel added, crossing his arms. He frowned. “Why must I stand here? I have seen you without pants many times.”

“Come on, not _that_ many,” Dean’s voice echoed back to him.

Castiel threw up his hands. “Again with the arguing! If only you put so much effort into your training.”

“Hey!”

Castiel nodded to himself and began pacing around the room. “That is American trait, I think.”

“Alright, smartass, you can turn around now.”

Castiel turned, breath already drawn in anticipation of another quip, but any words he might have had for Dean died instantly in his throat as he took in the sight before him. His client was turned half to the side, looking back at himself. He glanced up when Castiel turned and stretched the waistband of his charcoal dress pants out in front of him. “See? Look at this. Too big here –”

He slid his other hand – the one closest to Castiel – into his back pocket. The fit was so snug that Castiel could see the outline of each of Dean’s individual knuckles. “Too tight here.”

Castiel swallowed. Dean’s pants were indeed a little loose in the front now that the troublesome tummy was starting to fade away, but the fit in the back was… exceptional. Close and tight, pulled taut across thicker thighs and a rounder, perkier ass that certainly was not there a few weeks ago. It was amazing that Castiel’s tongue hadn’t fallen out of his mouth yet.

“I feel like they’ll rip if I even try sitting down,” Dean confessed, oblivious to Castiel’s ogling. “This inseam is killing me.”

Castiel shook his head. “They look fine.”

Dean frowned, and the crease between his eyes reappeared. “What? Did you hear what I just said?”

“Da. They fit well. You can have them tailored to fit your waist,” Castiel told him robotically, as if reading from a script. He was having trouble meeting Dean’s eyes – his attention was otherwise occupied.

Castiel only ever saw Dean in baggy basketball shorts and goofy t-shirts when he came in for his workouts. When he had arrived for the first time some months ago, he didn’t have much of an ass to speak of. A little something, sure. Seeing the product of their hard work framed so beautifully was satisfying in a deeply personal way.

Dean narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Castiel’s expression. “Yeah?”

Castiel nodded as if in a daze. “Mhm. Should be fine. Do you have a nickel?”

Dean’s frown deepened. “What? Why? Why do you need a –”

His eyes widened comically and he turned his body to face Castiel fully. Privately, Castiel mourned the loss of such a glorious view.

“Don’t objectify me,” Dean scoffed, crossing his arms. “My eyes are up here, Cas.”

“Mhm,” Castiel confirmed.

“Might want to wipe that drool off your face,” Dean suggested, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re an ass man?”

Castiel finally found the strength within himself to look at Dean’s face. “It’s the squats. And the deadlifts,” he announced.

Dean rolled his eyes, hoping it would distract from the blush he knew was rising to his face. “Ugh. Let’s just… go work out, ok?”

“No, no. You should show me other problems with your clothing. Many more problems. Are your shirts also too tight?” Castiel asked.

Dean sighed. “It’s just the pants right now.”

Castiel tilted his head back in apparent ecstasy. “Shame.”

“You’re a perv,” Dean announced, unbuttoning his pants and sliding back behind the curtain. Castiel smirked to himself once he was alone.

His fascination with Dean’s new... asset continued well into the week. That whole day in fact, Castiel couldn’t stop touching him. On deep lunges, Castiel insisted on correcting Dean’s form, which Dean saw through the second Castiel’s strong fingers dug into his thigh and slid up behind his ass. Hands were skittering down the small of his back during deadlifts, eyes were constantly drawn downwards, and Castiel even introduced some strategic new stretches to their cool down routine. Downward dog was suddenly a favorite of his, despite barely ever being used before.

It carried on outside work, too. Castiel grabbed Dean against the lockers one morning long before anyone would come in and hauled Dean’s legs up around his waist, hands fit tight to the curve of his ass. Dean came against Castiel’s stomach, with both of Castiel’s hands down the back of his pants.

At his apartment, Castiel flipped Dean onto his stomach and slowly stripped him, taking his time to kiss each and every knob of his spine. He pulled Dean’s shorts down just over the rise of his cheeks and bit into the flesh there, kneading his fingers into the sides. Dean could only whimper beneath him, rolling languidly against the sheets. Castiel’s nails left crescent-shaped marks in Dean’s skin by the time he was finished burying his face there, licking him open. Dean could swear that didn’t see Castiel’s face for the whole week – it was too busy hiding in his ass.

“God, you really _are_ an ass man,” Dean muttered to himself, inspecting new bruises on his hips in the mirror one Sunday morning.

 

In the wall of mirrors behind them, Dean watched the slow bend of his knees, a scarlet flush migrating up his chest like wildfire. He blew out a haggard breath, straightened for a moment – in perfect form, hands clasped above his head – and sank down again with a quiet whimper.

“Seventeen,” Castiel murmured.

Dean straightened his knees, drawing nearly all the way up again.

“Sixteen… fifteen… fourteen,” Castiel droned, as Dean lowered himself into another slow succession of squats.

Castiel’s eyes were closed. His hands trailed lazily on the floor from where he lay down on the bench press, twitching upwards occasionally as if magnetized to Dean’s hips. Dean watched them in the mirror as he continued to squat, eyes drawn to the flat planes of Castiel’s body, interrupted only by the staggering, upright erection Dean sat down on again and again.

“Thirteen… twelve… e-eleven.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The stretch of Castiel’s cock fought valiantly with the burning in his thighs as the most agonizing pain of this workout. Stretched thin on all sides.

Dean lowered himself again, spearing himself on Castiel’s cock, and groaned.

“Ten. Nine. Eight.”

Dean’s own cock throbbed between them, leaking on the exposed skin of Castiel’s stomach every time he bounced down. His form was getting sloppy, no doubt. Not that he was paying much attention to the workout to begin with. He suspected that neither was Castiel.

“I can’t, I can’t,” Dean moaned at last. He shifted forward to take Castiel in again with a sensuous roll of his hips and a firm grip on his shoulders.

“Seven six five four,” Castiel mumbled, finally bringing his hands up to steady Dean’s shaking thighs, bracketed around his hips. “Threetwoone!”

Dean bowed forward, eyes locked on his own in the wall of mirrors, and came.

Castiel gripped his trembling body and thrust up into him a few more times as Dean deliriously tried to reorient himself, empty and boneless. Castiel threw his head back against the bench with a quiet groan, and Dean could feel the moment he blew his load.

Sweaty and sore, Dean collapsed against his trainer’s chest. “Nice workout,” he mumbled.

Castiel grunted. “Please get off me.”

Dean laughed and experimentally squeezed his thighs. “Sorry, man. Don’t think my legs are working so good right now.”

Castiel patted his arm and exhaled. “Your stamina is definitely improving.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Dean dug deep into his energy reserve and managed to muscle up enough strength to swing his leg over his trainer and stand beside the bench, sighing with relief. “Should I be this tense after?” he asked, only with mild concern.

Castiel propped himself up on his elbows and tucked himself back into his shorts. “Take a hot shower. You’ll be fine.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows and retrieved his own shorts from the floor. They were hanging from the weight rack, tossed away in the heat of the moment. “You wanna join me?” he asked, stepping into them and trying his damndest not to get his feet caught.

He was still wearing his socks and sneakers. Jesus.

“If you’re up to it,” Castiel retorted. His eyes glimmered above a covert smirk.

Dean grinned. “You’re the one who says my stamina’s improving.”

Castiel sat up and shook out his shoulders. “It’s a work in progress,” he replied, stretching his arms. “But fair enough.”

Dean grabbed his water bottle and swished a mouthful around in his mouth. He chuckled, suddenly. A starburst in an otherwise clear and ordinary sky. “I left your playlist on repeat during my nap yesterday by accident,” he admitted. “Can’t get that fucking Katy Perry song out of my head.”

Cas laughed. Dean just stared. “I thought it was fitting.”

Dean blinked. “You think I’m a teenage dream?” he asked, in that breathy way he has when he’s trying to be funny but secretly holding back some kind of feeling.

Castiel just smiled at him. Dean could imagine an easy comeback – _You’re MY teenage dream_ – only the joke wouldn’t make him laugh, it only made his heart race, his fingers tingle, his knees wobble.

Dean cleared his throat. Time to get out of here. “So, um. Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Dean nodded and collected his bag, wincing at the uncomfortable drag of dried come in his shorts. “Cool. See you then.”

He walked out into the parking lot without uttering another word. Instead, all the words he could have said buzzed behind the back of his teeth, embarrassing things that he might have fed Castiel’s strangely earnest smile. _I kind of like those spinach smoothies you force on me walking actually isn’t so bad I feel like a better man with you sometimes Indie and I dance in the living room to Adele I love it when you smile at me like I’ve done something right not many people believe in me like you do._

It was probably better for everyone that he got out of there when he did.


	4. Chapter 4

The lady at the register frowned and raised her head. “I’m sorry sir, but your card was declined.”

Dean held his breath. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve tried it twice.”

God dammit, not again. The cashier had pity burrowed deep in the lines of her face. The businessman behind him in line quietly cleared his throat, and Dean could feel heat flooding his face. He just wanted a freaking coffee before his workout, was that too much to ask?

“Here,” he blurted. He felt his arm jerk forward, but he did not remember deciding to move it. “Use this one.”

The cashier took the card from his hand and swiped it. Her face cleared, a smile appearing in place of the worried frown that was there before. “Oh, that worked just fine. Sign here, please.”

Robotically, Dean reached forward and signed on the touch pad. Problem solved, trouble avoided, but sweat still beaded along his hairline. He could feel it itching on the back of his neck. His eyes darted furtively over to the card still in the cashier’s hand.

When Dean had collected his coffee – credit card heavy between his fingers – he hurried to the door and tossed his full cup in the trash. The very thought of putting his lips on it made him sick.

He contemplated the card for a moment outside the door, tilting the edge so he could watch it shimmer gold in the morning sun. He read himself the card number and his name printed below it.

It really should not have read “Dean H. Winchester” along the bottom. It was connected to his mother’s bank account; she had given him the card before he moved to LA as a precaution. _For emergencies,_ she had said, smiling sadly at him. She knew as well as he did that another white male actor in his twenties wouldn’t make any money, and she wanted to help in any way she could.

He shoved the card back into his wallet and hung his head, walking briskly to the gym. Someone knocked shoulders with him but he barely even registered the sensation.

His poor mother. She had an out-of-work joke of an actor for a son, and she’d have to read a $5.25 charge on her bill next month because he was too poor to buy himself _coffee._ So maybe he could have been a little wiser with money in the beginning, but it’s not like he grew up with shining role models, not with an alcoholic father and expensive divorce attorneys. It’s not like he grew up used to getting what he wanted.

Moments like these made him wonder why he ever bothered to leave home in the first place.

He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he stormed into the gym. He threw his things in his locker and didn’t bother with a gradual warm up on the treadmill. Blood was pounding in his ears as he breezed through his cardio, face red for an entirely different reason than usual. Castiel hadn’t even shown up yet – he’d trusted Dean to handle this stuff on his own.

As he’d just been reminded, it seemed that was a common fatal flaw in people that knew him.

When Castiel walked in, Dean was already lying down and pressing. Another regular had offered to spot for him, but he barely paid the guy any attention until he said, “Oh, hey, Coach is here. I’ll let him take over.”

Dean nodded and the guy slapped his shoulder companionably.

“You’re here early,” Castiel noted. “That’s good. Nice to know you’re taking things seriously now.”

Dean flinched. Castiel reached out to steady the bar as it wobbled.

“I got it,” Dean growled. Castiel just raised his palms in surrender.

He pounded through his workout with a ferocity he didn’t know he was capable of. Four sets, twelve reps pushups. Four sets, ten reps cable crossover. Five sets, twelve reps inclined dumbbell press. Repeat. Adjust. Repeat. The whole time with a grimace on his face and a locked jaw. He could catch glimpses of himself in the mirror wall from time to time and never held his own gaze for too long.

He didn’t rise to any of Castiel’s taunts like he usually did. Most of the time the playful teasing was enough to encourage him to show off a little, but that morning every word landed on his skin like a bee sting. Shame burned bright and hot behind his eyes.

Taking the hint, Castiel gave up trying to speak and settled for watching Dean from a small but obvious distance away.

Who was going to break the news to him, huh? Castiel saw Dean’s brand name gym bag and his big shades and his bodyguard and assumed he was just another spoiled brat, not that Dean blamed him. Even with those sharp, assessing eyes of his, it probably didn’t even occur to him that his arrogant star client only made it through the month thanks to Instagram sponsorships and small installments from appearing as an extra in low budget television series. Most of the savings left over from his soap days went straight into bills, paying off loans, and back into the job itself.

And accepting help from anyone?

He was far too proud for that.

Castiel approached him cautiously as he stood up from his pushup position, shaking out his arms. His face was soft and he ducked his head as he spoke, leaning into Dean’s space and valiantly trying not to appear to be doing so.

“You are quiet. Complain less than usual.”

Dean only scowled. He didn’t meet his trainer’s eyes. “Don’t want to think today.”

Castiel nodded and took a step back. “Ok. Give me another set.”

Dean immediately dropped back down to the floor, focusing on the burn of his muscles instead of the low roll of guilt still swooping through his gut.

He wished more than anything that Castiel would stop looking at him like that. Like the cashier. Like the businessman. He didn’t want their pity.

He’d rather be an asshole than a charity case.

 

His week just went from bad to worse. He left his bag at the gym after his terrible morning, panicked, and had to call Benny away from dinner with his family to drive him back over to the gym. His phone charger and some protein bars had been swiped from the outer pockets. He could easily buy another phone charger, and boxes of energy bars still waited for him back home in his pantry, but Dean’s blood still boiled despite the simple fixes.

He grabbed Castiel’s arm before he got on the treadmill the next day. “You’re coming home with me today.” Not a discussion, not a request.

Castiel just nodded. He was hoping he could relax a bit after that, lose himself for a few hours, but all Dean could focus on even while Castiel was touching him was the idea of someone rifling through his things, of strangers rifling through his life, the bad and private parts of him that he’s always been ashamed of, and being powerless to stop them. He didn’t feel understood or cared for even when he and Castiel were having sex. This was just another way he could be used.

Afterwards, while they lay in bed, Dean brushed Castiel’s mustache with a single finger. He frowned as he repeated the motion, combing over it again and again.

“You have to shave this,” he announced at last.

Castiel blinked in that flat way of his, but didn’t otherwise react beyond a defensive, “Why?”

In response, he received this petulant explanation: “Because it’s gross and you’d look better without it.”

Castiel huffed. Dean insistently snuggled closer.

“Look. You’re helping me change my body for the better, right?” he asked. “So I’m going to help you change yours. It’s only fair.”

Castiel frowned, nearly pouting now. “In Russia, it makes me look very distinguished.”

“Well you’re not in Russia. You’re in my bed, and I don’t like it. _Shave_.”

Castiel shoved Dean off of his chest with an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “I will… consider it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Fine. You want me to keep being embarrassed to be seen with you, that’s up to you.”

Castiel was quiet for a long moment. “You don’t have to be mean,” he replied at last. “I don’t understand why you feel so intensely about this.”

“ _You’re_ being a baby,” Dean snapped. “Just shave it. It doesn’t do you any good. Who even grows a mustache anymore?”

Castiel sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling up his boxers as he went. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said sharply.

Dean grimaced. “Yeah, whatever.”

Castiel scoffed in response and walked out of the bedroom. Dean scraped his hands over his face and tried to ignore the hollow sound of a door slamming.

Great. He’d fucked that up, too.

When he finally got his shit together enough to put on some pants, Dean called the only person that was better at ignoring personal problems than he was: Bela Talbot.

“Listen,” Dean slurred into his phone, at two in the morning and with Bela tittering at his side. “It’s not like you’re perfect, ok?” He really hoped that Castiel could detect the anger he was trying to infuse into that sentence.

Castiel sighed. “Of course not. I don’t think that,” he replied. His voice was too measured, too quiet on the other line to be heard over Bela’s wheezing hyena laughter.

“Shh, shhh, _Bela_ ,” Dean hissed. “And yes you _do_ ,” he insisted with a scoff. “You’re a personal fucking trainer of all things. You think you’re so fucking superior, Castiel, you really do. It’s _annoying_.”

Castiel scoffed back this time. “What do you know?” he snarled. “Your life has been so easy. You have no idea what it’s like to be poor and unhappy, far from home!”

Dean laughed, sharp and mean. “I don’t know? ME? You don’t know a god damn thing,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively. “ _I wouldn’t know_ , pft. You’re no better than Crowley, telling me what to do all the time. I don’t need you babying me and being all fucking… condescending about it!”

“I’m not having this conversation with you when you’re like this. Do not be late to work on Monday.” Castiel’s voice was a dead monotone. It wasn’t until Dean had heard it again in his ear did he realize that Cas hadn’t spoken to him like that in a very long time. Since they met, really.

Dean laughed. The phone went dead. Bela passed him another drink.

 

And finally, the crushing blow: an article appeared. Trending on Facebook, in fact. Bela forwarded it to him on Twitter with a winky face emoticon a few days after their night out together. Just icing on the shit cake that was Dean Winchester’s life.

By now, the public had discovered the information on IMDB about the American Werewolf reboot, and Lionsgate circulated an official press release about the movie. Reactions across all the major social media platforms were mixed at best; voices condemning a reboot for its inauthenticity drowned out most of the others. The same thing had happened with every classic movie reboot in the last decade though, so a general negative reaction didn’t actually perturb Dean. Acting, above all else, made him money; his projects and his characters did not define him. Executives paid him to stand in front of a camera and look pretty, so long as he could remember his lines. Nothing personal about it. Sweet gig all around.

What _did_ rattle him slightly was that somebody – honestly, Dean would put his money on Crowley if he had to take a guess – also released the potential cast list. And those mean, loud voices only got meaner and louder.

_Among those rumored to be cast for the role of David Kessler are Chris Hemsworth look-alike Brock O’Hurn and soap star Dean Winchester (remember Eric Brady? From the ‘90s?), along with some Hollywood heavy-hitters like Armie Hammer, Taylor Lautner, and Shia LaBeouf._

“No way,” one person posted beneath the article. “Dunno what he looks like now, but Eric Brady’s way too small to play a convincing werewolf.”

Dean grit his teeth. “That’s what the trainer’s for, asshole,” he muttered to the screen.

“Who?” someone else had replied.

Dean closed the tab. He cracked his knuckles. He hadn’t Googled himself in a while.

And there it was: Ten Things You Need to Know About Dean Winchester.

Number 1 was a plug for the American Werewolf reboot, riddled with similar attacks on his inexperience and physicality, which Dean scrolled right past. The last line managed to catch his eye though: _Setting his impressive Instagram following aside – mostly comprised of tween girls who think he’s cute, F.Y.I. – Winchester hasn’t had a good track record with the press in the past._

His phone chirped with an email from Crowley. He’d probably seen the article, too.

Dean’s frown deepened as he continued to scroll through the list. The article relied on untrue claims like, _He cheated on Jessica Simpson!_ and, _Based on past interview responses, he’s not that bright!_ or, _He isn’t close with his family!_

Ok, that last one was sort of true, but what business did anybody else have knowing about that? The authors somehow tried to postulate that spending time with his friends was a bad thing. _He likes to party… A LOT._ He _knew_ these bloggers, too – met them at a red carpet event a year ago – and he had only ever been cordial and charming to Ed and Harry. Where could this animosity be coming from?

Dean frowned and opened the slideshow at the top of the next article. There were at least thirty photos of him uploaded – some taken from his Instagram account, some he recognized from magazines or Buzzfeed posts about parties he’d attended. Each one featured him smack in the center, arms around some model or group of fans or toasting with an NFL player that was clearly too drunk to object that he didn’t know Dean in the first place. Identical brilliant smiles on every face they showed.

He just didn’t understand – his whole career was built on pleasing people. If he was clearly making other people so happy, why did they detest him so much?

He knew he shouldn’t look, but Dean was lured into the black pit that was the comments section. Post after post, one discouraging dismissal after another.

“Wow… shameless and classless. He’s hot tho!”

“Backwoods white trash,” someone else wrote.

“Wouldn’t touch that mess with a ten-foot pole.”

Dean quietly shut his laptop.

Did people really think of him that way?

He tuned Crowley out all the time when he said that kind of stuff, because he didn’t care for Crowley’s opinion. He was only an afterthought to that bitter, spiteful old man. He could ignore him because other people assured him he was loved.

But what if that just wasn’t true? How could he have totally missed the part where no one really knew who he was?

Not even Cas.

Dean stood up so fast he almost knocked over the stool he had been sitting on. Blinking hard a few times, he pulled out his cell phone and charged to his closet. He had to find an outfit. He dialed his phone one-handedly as he tried to make a decision.

_Where were those extra tight jeans?_

The phone line clicked. “Hello?”

“Hey! Sammy!” Dean said into the phone, probably too loudly. “It’s Dean!”

“Dean?” came the sleepy reply. “Dude, it’s almost two in the morning.”

Dean shrugged and struggled with a knot in his shoelaces. The patent leather dress shoes were souvenirs from an old modeling gig and he very rarely wore them out for fear of damaging them. “Yeah, man, prime party time! Look, I know it’s last minute, but there’s always this karaoke thing at Ellen’s ‘til 5 and I was thinking, hey, you know, we haven’t like _gone out_ in a while, just the boys. What do you say?”

Sam’s soft laugh over the line was encouraging. “That sounds great, man. And I hope you have fun.”

Dean stopped, shoe dangling precariously in his lax grip. “What, you mean you’re not coming? Come on, Ash even promised free drinks last time we were –”

Sam’s sleepy voice cut in. “I’m sure he did. But I’m _tired,_ Dean. It’s early. There’s more to life than parties. Like, sleep? You should try it sometime.”

Dean shook his head and shut his eyes. “No, hey, come on. You’re really gonna wuss out on me?”

Sam sighed. “Go to sleep Dean. We’ll do something later this week, I promise.”

Sam’s tone was nothing but sweet and conciliatory, but Dean still felt his heart sinking and his enthusiasm diminishing with each passing second. He dropped the shoe in his hand to the floor.

“Dean?”  
Dean shook himself. “Yeah, no, I’m here,” he said. He had to clear his throat.

Sam paused. “Hang in there, Dean. I’ll see you later.”

“See you.”

But Dean was talking to a dead line.

He stared into nothing as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. Glancing down at the shoe abandoned on the floor, Dean decided it only merited a scowl and a nudge.

Sam didn’t want to come out with him? Fine. His bank account was probably too empty for partying that night, anyway.

His phone chirped again. Another notification from Crowley.

He stomped to the kitchen and pulled a brand new bottle of Jack down from the top cabinet and twisted off the cap, collapsing into bed in his nice, pressed shirt.

At least he knew one other surefire way to have fun.

 

For the first time in a long time, Dean dreamt about his dad. His sweaty, wrinkled face too close to Dean’s, his eyes drooping, mouth spitting and slurring, “Whadyou wan’a _act_ for?”

He had been sitting in his armchair, drinking a beer. Dean had been picking up some of Sam’s leftover stuff at his place before the move to California.

A wobbly fist had crashed into his temple, and it surprised him more than it actually hurt.

“God damn idiot,” his dad had scoffed.

It came back to him in snatches: yelling until he went hoarse and knocking over empty bottles and slamming into the coffee table and fighting about everything that wasn’t actually moving to LA: dropping out of high school because he wasn’t too good at reading but he was good at getting people to do him favors, the Winchester inability to hold down a stable job, kissing boys from the baseball team in the backseat of his car just because Dean needed to feel good about himself and he didn’t want to go home. His childish hopes of “being somebody” getting ridiculed from three feet above him, glass splintering into his back and tears brimming in his eyes. Sitting down at the kitchen table in his mother’s house and throwing his frustration back at her when she only asked him softly, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do with your life?”

Dean woke up in a cold sweat, panting and shaking in the dark.

No, this isn’t what he wanted to do with his life at all.


	5. Chapter 5

At The Gym the next day, with a headache to humble him and the dream still weighing heavy on his mind, Dean figured out he really messed up when Castiel didn’t wave to him. In fact, he moved directly out of Dean’s line of sight as he set up at the treadmill. He had shot Sam an “I’m sorry” text in the car, but it looked like Castiel was going to need something a little more substantial from him.

Trying to respect clear boundaries, Dean followed Castiel’s lead and kept his distance. He kept the music out of his ears for once, eyes darting to the corner every time he thought he sensed movement. While he missed the dulcet sounds of Castiel’s playlists, it was infinitely more important to be alert.

As hard as he might have tried, his trainer couldn’t avoid him forever. Eventually, Castiel came over to collect him for weights. He was Dean’s de facto spotter – he needed to be by his side.

“Morning,” Dean said, clearing his throat.

Castiel barely even glanced at him.

“You are speaking to me today?” he asked. “I am not ‘too good’ for you?” The bite of icy sarcasm in his tone nearly made Dean flinch away and clam up all over again.

He rubbed the back of his neck instead. “Um, yeah. Look, Cas, I’m...”

Castiel gestured for Dean to sit down, so sit he did.

“I’m sorry. For being an asshole all week.”

Castiel hummed contemplatively. “I did not think you knew how to make that word.”

Dean lay back under the bar and sighed. He wrapped his hands around the metal, twisting it in his grip for a moment and bracing himself. “I don’t use it very often. But I know when I’m wrong. I was taking stuff out on you and that wasn’t cool.”

He grunted as he lifted the weight off its rack. Castiel watched him do it and kept his arms crossed. Whether it was an intimidation tactic or a sign of trust Dean couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry I led you to think of me that way,” Castiel said, resigned. His voice, low and soft, conveyed every ounce of pain the thought probably brought him. “Have I really been so terrible to you?”

Dean shook his head. “No, no, you’re. You didn’t really do anything. I’m just… struggling with some stuff, is all.”

Castiel seemed to chew on that as Dean pressed and counted in his head. “Slow down,” Castiel instructed, resting his fingertips on the edge of the weight. Dean held it, then did as he said. A breath hissed out from between his teeth as he brought his arms back down, slower this time, fueling a deep burn in his shoulders.

Dean didn’t see him do it, but Castiel nodded at the end of the first set.

“A trainer is supposed to be passionate about your wellbeing. And open-minded. He should learn along with you, and keep you motivated.” He kicked the foot of the press, a cue for Dean to begin the next set. He braced himself.

“Whatever you struggle with, I should struggle with you,” Castiel told him softly. “That is what I am meant to do for you. We try to make your life better _together_. It hurts that you don’t trust me to do my job.”

Dean bit his lip and hissed again, tightening his grip around the bar. “I’m not much of a team player,” he grunted.

Castiel sighed. “I’m not here to judge you, Dean.”

Dean slammed the weight back up on its rack and heaved a giant exhale, shaking his arms out along the floor.

“I feel lonely,” he told him, wiping the sweat that had begun to drip down into his eyes. “I’m just not happy. Everyone is so critical of me all the time and I never feel like I can relax. I don’t know how to be by myself.”

Castiel nodded and touched his shoulder. Dean looked up and was surprised to find clear and honest openness in his big, blue eyes. A touch of softness that he thought he had only imagined in their most intimate moments together.

“I want to help you become someone you will like to be alone with. Truly, I do.”

He let that sink in for a moment before sparing a sheepish smile. “Or, maybe, not so alone.”

Dean soaked in that moment for a minute, the promise of comfort and acceptance, of achieving something better for himself with unwavering support. His chest heaved. Something groaned and cracked in there, oozing out warmth all through his veins, to the very tips of his fingers.

He didn’t even bother trying to repress it, to ignore it. He just basked in it for a minute, reveling in how those words made him feel.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, and it was probably the most heartfelt thanks he’d ever given.

Castiel smiled and took his hand away. “Don’t hold your breath when you lift. Breathe deep.”

Dean smiled back. “Whatever you say, Coach.”

He wrapped his hands around the bar again.

 

Castiel tailed Benny’s black car in his beat-up clunker back to Dean’s apartment once their workout came to an end. Dean unlocked the door hesitantly, a little unnerved by Castiel’s critical eye. He’d never been to Dean’s home in a strictly professional context before. Weirdly, he was a little bit nervous.

Indie jumped up at the door as they passed through, yipping and pawing at Dean for attention. Surprisingly, she even wriggled against Castiel’s ankles until she earned a few scratches behind her ears. Dean tried to apologize on her behalf but Castiel would hear none of it. He was completely smitten.

When Indie finally let up, Castiel walked through the entryway like he was right at home. He made an immediate right into the kitchen, quick and precise and with narrowed eyes. Indie trailed after him excitedly.

He threw open the door to the top cabinet, above the fridge. “Is this all there is?” he asked.

Dean’s collection of bottles, from Jack to Johnny, winked back at them.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s everything. Oh, wait.”

He dashed into the living room and pulled another bottle from a drawer in the side table. Castiel was leaning patiently against the counter when he returned to the kitchen.

Dean passed him the bottle. “That’s the last of it.”

Castiel flashed him an uncharacteristic grin. “Alright. Let’s start.”

One by one, Castiel uncapped the bottles and emptied their contents into Dean’s sink. Every spilt drop tore another whine from Dean’s throat. “Jesus, this is fucking criminal,” he whimpered.

Castiel looked over his shoulder at him with narrowed eyes. “You either want to be clean and happy, or you want to continue to be lonely and miserable,” he accused. “Which is it?”

Dean tipped his head skyward. “Fine, yes, clean and happy! Just get it over with,” he pleaded.

Castiel shook his head and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal, just to make his point.

When Castiel stopped the disposal, the sound of silence in the apartment was almost oppressive. Dean surveyed the line of empty bottles along the counter and raised an eyebrow. _Wow, that is kind of a lot, isn’t it?_

Castiel turned back around, and all traces of gruffness had vanished from his face. His eyes were soft and he leaned into Dean’s space happily. Indie whined and shoved her way between them, but Castiel didn’t even seem to notice.

“I’m proud of you, Dean,” he said.

Slowly, Dean smiled back. “I’m… kind of proud of me too. Thanks for helping me get there.”

Castiel nodded, short and decisive, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “I still haven’t seen that Jones movie. Or Star Wars.”

Dean grinned, with a much less shaky smile. “Hell yeah.”

Castiel curled around Dean on the couch, sliding fingers into his hair, and Dean chuckled. “I almost just offered you a beer. How fucked is that?”

A quiet laugh ghosted across Dean’s ear as Castiel leaned against him. “It takes time for habits to change. For people to change.”

Dean sighed. “Don’t get all philosophical on me, man.”

“Sorry.”

Dean turned up the volume on the TV, and leaned back into Castiel’s touch. The warmth and security in this simple gesture was exactly what he needed. Indie hopped up after a minute too, eager to have some playmates, and Dean didn’t have the heart to tell her to get down. She fell asleep in Dean’s lap, and Dean fell asleep in Castiel’s.

It would be the first time that Cas actually slept over at Dean’s apartment.

 

Dean was cracking eggs into a pan when Crowley called. He wiped a slimy hand on his shirt and quickly accepted the call, flipping to speaker so he could still chop the chives.

“Yo,” he answered, reaching for a knife from the block. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Just some friendly advice,” Crowley’s tinny voice announced. “And a couple of plane tickets.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Crowley, come on –”

“Don’t argue. This is important. It’s for the werewolf movie,” he calmly replied. By now, surely Crowley had grown accustomed to accommodating Dean’s fear of flying.

Dean grit his teeth and took his reluctance out on the vegetables in his hands. “Ok, I’ll bite. What is it now?”

Crowley’s grin on the other end of the line was practically audible. “A few of my sources told me some low-level Lionsgate employees would be attending a convention in Miami this weekend. Big deal, very geeky.”

Dean scooped up his chopped greens and dumped them into the skillet with the eggs. “Low-level?” he asked. _Then why the hell would Crowley care?_

“Writers, bureaucrats, that kind of thing,” Crowley explained. “The kind of people that can open doors,” he added conspiratorially.

Dean nodded as Crowley continued. “And if they just so _happened_ to do a little scouting and _happened_ to run into a certain someone on the casting shortlist for an upcoming movie they’re involved in…”

Dean rolled his eyes fondly. Everything was under the table with Crowley, but the guy really did have his back in a weird way. “I got it, I got it. Make nice, grease the skids. Work the angle. How do you want me to play this?” he asked.

Crowley hummed. “Just do what you do best. Invite them out for drinks, flirt a little, show them a good time. Be genuine,” Crowley cooed. “But don’t sleep with anyone,” he tacked on hastily.

Dean poked at his omelet (which looked more like scrambled eggs at this point). “Can my trainer come?” he asked distractedly.

Crowley hesitated. Dean heard the surprised lilt to his pitch as he replied, “Bloody hell, of course he can. Need you in top shape. What, worried there aren’t any gyms in _Miami?_ ”

Dean just smiled. “Cool. Thanks. Benny too.”

“Yes, yes. Naturally.”

“Thanks for the tip, Crowley.”

Crowley spat out a “don’t _thank_ me,” before unceremoniously hanging up on him. Even though it meant that he would be boarding a plane, Dean still found himself grinning as he sat down to dig into his slightly overcooked eggs, daydreaming about broad smiles and tan legs on the Florida beaches.

 

Dean didn’t stay awake for the flight. He shoved Indie’s carry-on crate into Benny’s lap and popped a questionable dose of Valium before they even took off. Castiel, having been briefed on his new travel plans only hours before they were scheduled to leave, sat several rows behind him. He was still irritated with his client’s demands anyway. Dean could swear he heard grumbling right before he passed out.

Crowley technically lied about staying in Miami. Once they landed at Miami International, Benny drove Dean, Castiel, two people from Crowley’s PR team, Pamela, and Indie in her sad-ass crate up the 40 minutes to Fort Lauderdale. The convention was being held at the Fort Lauderdale Convention Center and wouldn’t let out until six or so, but that left the crew in the perfect position of meeting somebody for a night out immediately afterwards.

The hotel that Crowley set them up in wasn’t bad either, though Dean was still a little too loopy to fully appreciate it when they arrived. Benny was right next door and Castiel got his own room a little further down the hall. He patted Dean on the shoulder and reminded him to set his phone alarm before heading out for the night. Dean sleepily promised that he would, and Benny simply quirked an eyebrow that very clearly betrayed his doubts.

Predictably, Dean forgot to set his alarm. Also just as predictably, Castiel nearly broke down the door badgering him to get the hell out of bed.

“Alright, alright, give it a rest, Cas,” Dean shouted over the sound of insistent knocking. He threw the deadbolt and wrenched open the door.

He had to do a double take in the doorway.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I’m a goddamn genius.”

Castiel splayed his hands. He tilted his chin upwards to proudly display a freshly-shaven face.

“This is good?” he asked.

There was, perhaps, a touch of smugness in his voice.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Fuck. I…”

He choked.

“I _told_ you,” Dean said.

Castiel tried to give him a flat look, but Dean caught the glint in his eye and the slight curve to the corner of his mouth that suggested that Castiel was actually enjoying the attention.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dean added in a small voice.

“Just get dressed,” Castiel instructed, and god, Dean could not help himself from watching the way his clean lip molded the words.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, before gently shutting the door again.

When Dean walked by the hotel clock on his way to the bathroom, he noticed that the time read 7:00AM, not 6:00AM like they normally agreed on.

 _He let me sleep in,_ Dean marveled. _He shaved his mustache and he let me sleep in._

Castiel had an icy glare and firm instructions for him when he finally managed to open the door again, but all Dean could do was nod and ogle.

 _Probably shouldn’t mention it_ , he thought to himself as Castiel bullied him into the elevator to the hotel fitness center, even though his mind was still spinning with half-formed questions. _What does it mean? Why would he – no, for me?_ _What did I do to deserve – ?_

He didn’t have the time or the emotional fortitude to try and fill in those blanks, so he pushed them to the side and followed Castiel to the fitness center to do what they do best.

Dean yawned into his fist, dragging his feet along the treadmill. “Man, I gotta tell you: this no coffee thing is really killing me,” he admitted.

Castiel shrugged. “Green tea,” he suggested, “also has caffeine, but none of the sugar you’re so fond of.”

Dean rolled his head on his neck and tried to loosen up his shoulders with a little wince. “Not drinkin’ leaf water,” he grumbled, still half asleep.

Castiel’s eyes darted down Dean’s torso. He missed nothing. “You sleep well?” he asked, surprisingly tenderly.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, ok I guess. Tossed and turned for a while. Travel always kind of messes me up. You?”

“Mm. I am surprised. You slept fine during the flight.” Dean flushed, but didn’t bother to defend himself. “And yes, I did. Thank you.”

“Good.”

Castiel leaned up against the adjacent treadmill, listening to the _whoosh whoosh_ of Dean’s sneakers against the rubber. With no other clients to attend to and the gym floor clear apart from them, Castiel didn’t bother keeping his distance.

“I wish I could travel as much as you,” he commented offhandedly. “You live very glamorous life.”

Dean huffed a laughed and shook his head. “Not so glamorous,” he promised. “And trust me, I pay for it.”

“Still,” Castiel mused. “It must be nice to have that freedom.”

“It is, most of the time.” Dean turned to give Castiel a wink. Castiel smiled back like this was something routine for them, when really it was anything but. They hadn’t snapped at each other yet. Castiel hadn’t put on his sweatbands that morning, standing only in a blue t-shirt that brought out his eyes and a pair of shorts, with sleep-mussed hair and five o’clock shadow.

“That’s why,” he said quietly.

Dean frowned. “That’s why what?” he asked.

“That’s why I really moved to Los Angeles,” Castiel told him. “Helping people feel better about themselves is actually… rewarding. I thought I could do better for myself here. I wanted to live a life more true to myself. On my own, in… in freedom.” He punctuated his explanation with a shrug.

Dean nodded. “No sports cars or pride parades back in the motherland?” he asked.

Castiel smiled crookedly, one side of his mouth tilting up higher than the other. “Someday I’ll get my sports car,” he teased.

Dean grinned back. “You gotta take me for a ride when you do.”

Castiel didn’t respond, so Dean filled the empty space himself. “I really do like the clean-shaven look, by the way. I meant it.”

Castiel kicked off the treadmill he was leaning against and rounded on Dean’s, clicking buttons on the control panel with practiced ease. Dean jogged to keep up with his new pace. “Enough chat. Focus on breathing. You can put in headphones now.”

Dean grinned lazily. “You know,” he said, already breathing heavier. “I should run a marathon one of these days. I probably could, right? Sammy would lose his _mind_.”

Castiel shook his head, smiling. “I’m sure if you wanted to, you could. You have strong ambition.”

“You’d do it with me?”

Castiel fought back a grin. “I’d train with you, why not. But I’d have to run slower to keep with you during the race, so. No.”

Dean whistled. “Oh yeah, tough guy? Come on, get up here, show me what you got.”

So Castiel stepped up on the machine next to Dean’s and kept pace. He ran like a graceful animal, long strides and good posture, a steady rhythm that made even sprinting look effortless. Inevitably, he and Dean incrementally increased their running speeds to outdo each other in petty competition. Dean’s lungs felt ready to explode when they finally called a truce, but he still wheezed a little laughter through it. He had gotten Castiel to _sweat_ a little, he proudly observed.

Their warm up lasted twenty minutes longer than it usually did, but neither one of them complained about having to make up the time.

The rest of their workout kept much the same tone: jovial and light-hearted, teasing and challenging. It was back day – lateral pull downs and rowing, mostly – which meant a lot of Castiel hovering close to Dean’s neck and counting harshly in his ear, or a hot hand pressed wide and firm between his shoulder blades to soothe the burn on an extension.

“Beautiful,” Castiel complimented under his breath.

Dean’s own breath hitched and nearly threw off his rhythm. Castiel lightly smacked him in the head for it. “Don’t get distracted.”

“Well then stop distracting me,” Dean grunted back.

Castiel removed the hand on Dean’s back and took a deliberate step backwards. Dean’s hands slipped on the barbell. “Fine. Five more reps to make up for this one.”

“You’re such a tease,” Dean panted.

Castiel darted forward to kiss the space below his ear, and Dean just about melted right there on the fitness center floor.

 

Unfortunately, hotel breakfast bars cater to the general American public, not to body builders on a diet. Dean had to heat up some bland chicken Castiel had thought to bring in a cooler via the communal microwave, and Castiel consolingly slipped him a vanilla Greek yogurt from the buffet. Dean sighed, ate in comfortable silence, and stared longingly at the bacon tray as he chewed.

“Beach?” he asked hopefully.

Castiel shrugged. One of the people from Crowley’s office, a serious man in a trademark gunmetal suit that had decided to join them for breakfast, nodded. “Mr. Crowley encouraged modest public appearances on this trip.”

Dean tore into his second piece of chicken and huffed. “I can’t ever tell what he wants from me,” he muttered, mostly to Castiel. Benny caught the comment as well and snickered along with them.

“Yes, you can go to the beach,” the man added, nervously glancing away. “Appear casual. Do not draw too much attention to yourself.”

Dean nodded. “Pictures?”

“No media,” the man insisted. “Personal? Up to you. Discretion is advised.”

Dean smiled to himself. A whole weekend without being harassed, just enjoying the sun and his dog and his fans. A staged vacation.

“Awesome,” he decided. He winked again across the table.

Castiel ignored it. “You’re in a good mood,” he stated.

Dean nodded enthusiastically and put down his fork with a clatter. “Hell yeah I am,” he replied. “Sunshine and water all day. Think I can squeeze in a slushie?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what that is, but I think I will say no.”

“Damn.”

Even slushless, Dean managed to have a lovely afternoon. A few people recognized him behind his sunglasses at the snack shack, so he took a couple pictures and signed a few bare chests. His new figure earned him some appreciation – people touching his arms in photos and eyes drawn to his chest, his flat tummy, his bare and freckled shoulders. He would definitely have a sunburn by the time this trip ended, but Dean just couldn’t keep his clothes on. And why should he?

“Looks like your handiwork is paying off, huh?” he asked Castiel, leaning in close so he could hear over the waves and the beach chatter. Castiel lingered a few feet away while Dean made conversation, but met him halfway when he spoke. “Ultimate beach bod.”

“Cockiness looks terrible on you,” Castiel remarked. The mischievous glimmer in his eyes said otherwise.

Dean smirked. “I thought you liked a little cock in me.”

“Who are you calling little?”

Dean threw his head back and laughed deep from his belly, putting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself. “Come on, let’s go tan.”

Castiel did _not_ enjoy the feeling of sand between his toes like Dean did. He did not enjoy the harsh, ridiculous tan lines he got from his socks and t-shirt. But those things didn’t seem to matter as much as he observed Dean sprawling out in the sun like he belonged there, like he had been some sort of god in a past life. Dean had winked at him, catching his eye, and said, “If it were up to me, I’d be tanning naked.”

Castiel groaned softly. “Please stop.”

“Will you rub sunscreen on my back?”

“We’re in _public,_ Dean,” Castiel stressed.

Dean pouted, but didn’t argue. Instead, he rested his chin on his arms and basked in the warm glow.

Castiel watched him snuggle into his beach towel from the corner of his eye, and valiantly tried to suppress the emerging fantasy of licking that little line of sweat from the nape of Dean’s neck.

 _Sometimes I am too good at my job,_ he mused.

 

They must have looked like a couple, the two of them. The thought occurred to Dean too late in the day to do anything about it. Even with other people around them, even with distance between them, Dean’s eyes and Castiel’s met and held like they were tethered. Fond, familiar smiles got paired with too-close touches, whispers, quiet laughter. They basically co-parented Indie, taking turns holding her leash as they strolled along the sand, picking up neat shells to hand off to one another and flicking salt water like children.

Once Dean started to nod off in the shade, warm and content, Crowley’s guys urged them back to the hotel to sleep it off before the ever-important evening of networking.

Dean was practically sleeping on Castiel in the hotel elevator. He leaned heavily against his side – which was pretty difficult to ignore now that he was all hard angles and weighed upwards of two hundred pounds. But there were no fans here. No intimidating, incriminating cameras. Dean sucked a wet kiss to Castiel’s throat and Castiel leaned back into him, unable to resist.

“You taste like sunscreen,” Dean mumbled. Castiel could feel the words against his pulse point and he gulped.

The door opened for their floor and Indie sauntered out into the hall, tracking sand and salt on the carpet and perfectly at home.

“Shower with me,” Dean murmured, as they stumbled after her. He nibbled at Castiel’s ear lobe.

Castiel huffed and wrapped a hand possessively around Dean’s hip. “You are… what is the word?” he whispered back. Somewhere, a lock clicked on a door, but the sound didn’t even register. “Clingy.”

Dean giggled, deep and sexy, into his skin. They stumbled further down the hallway. “Humor me.”

Castiel sighed and pretended not to notice that Dean was pushing them towards his room.

When Castiel was done sweeping his hands up and down Dean’s back, cleaning off the sand and the sunscreen and the sweat, Dean dropped to his knees right there in the bathtub and sucked the tip of Castiel’s cock between his lips like he was dying for it. Slow and smooth he only took him down deeper, to the always-sensational soundtrack of Castiel’s soft moans.

“Bzohe moy.”

Dean bobbed his head, eyes shut against the spray, savoring the delicious hazy moment that Castiel scratched lightly along the back of his scalp, showing his appreciation in half-hushed moans and stuttering hips. “Oh, yes. Just like that,” he panted. “More.”

Dean held loosely onto Castiel’s trim hips as he rolled a few sloppy thrusts into his mouth, not deep enough to worry him but enough to get a good, soft drag along the head. Dean curled his tongue and slid his hands back to palm at Castiel’s ass, encouraged him deeper. He squeezed there, swallowed around Castiel’s cock, and let go of a low moan himself. A few more thrusts and some breathy “oh, _oh_ ”s and Castiel was coming, thick and hot down Dean’s throat.

He took it all, trying not to choke or suck water up his nose with his own harsh breathing. He ignored the heavy erection straining between his legs. Castiel made a move to touch it anyway when he pulled him to his feet.

“Later,” he promised, swatting his hand away. “‘M too tired.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to baby you,” Castiel weakly protested. His eyelids drooped even worse. He pulled Dean in for a kiss.

Dean only shook his head. “‘S ok sometimes. Nap,” he requested.

So they did. They curled up together in Dean’s nice, firm hotel bed as Dean’s arousal flagged. Dean even positioned Castiel’s arms around himself so he could be the little spoon. Castiel yawned over Dean’s head – they’d had a long day already.

If a kiss or two managed to drop to the crown of Dean’s head, that was no one’s business but theirs.

 

They weren’t supposed to stalk the Lionsgate personnel or anything, but hanging out in the hotel bar across the street from the convention center was probably a safe bet as a place to start some chatter. Alcohol and compliments flowed freely that night, and no one was quite so charming or boisterously pleasant as a well-rested Dean Winchester. He glowed when he grinned. His smooth talking, uninhibited, hit just the right nerve with everyone that held his gaze. To capture his attention for even a moment, to have those green eyes fixed on you, was hypnotic. He had the small crowd that they’d gathered wrapped entirely around his finger.

Castiel downed a few shots in camaraderie with the others, but noticed that Dean barely touched his rum and coke all night. He was too busy rolling up his shirtsleeves, or gesturing through an unbelievable story, or clapping someone he’d just met on the back as they said reluctant farewells. He shook hands and he dealt cards. He delivered drinks to their table, but he never touched one himself.

Too busy swaying into Dean’s magnetic orbit, no one noticed. When the time of night came to change venues, Dean had collected an impressive stack of business cards in his suit jacket pocket. Castiel lurked on the outskirts of conversation, occasionally intervening when a lighting technician with a thick accent shook Dean’s hand or a health-related topic came up. He didn’t have the same practice that Dean did with schmoozing – he was obviously not as well suited for Hollywood as Dean – but he helped make friends where he could.

They barhopped with a rotating circle of acquaintances. The two members of Crowley’s PR team snuck people in and out like revolving doors; Dean had to admit that they were very good at their jobs. Suggestions got wilder with each passing hour – this place does pints for a dollar on Friday, this place has a mechanical bull, this place has karaoke. Only in Florida, right?

Some guy that worked for a start-up studio in Vancouver let it slip that he was into a very different club scene, and they ended up at a gay bar.

Despite 1AM having came and went, Purgatory was packed from wall to wall. The place was eerily dim, with only black lights and body paint streaking the way. People clambered around the huge bar in the center of the room like they were dying for it, elbowing each other or letting their hands wander like snakes among reeds. Music thumped low and grating from the speakers like the growl of wild animals, cutting off all communication.

After a few minutes of trying to engage with the small crowd they’d arrived with, Dean, Benny, and Castiel lost sight of them. They were on their own. Benny looked too uncomfortable to have fun in a place like this.

Dean, on the other hand, looked right at home.

“Finally!” he shouted, barely audible over the pounding bass. He pointed frantically to the bar. “Let’s get drunk!”

Castiel didn’t have the heart or the pride to confess that he was almost-sort-of-already there. Unlike Dean, he hadn’t felt the need to stay sober all evening.

Benny stood out of the way while they drank. Dean charmed his way through a few free drinks with some eager patrons circling them, passing one to Castiel and Benny before trying one himself. Benny brusquely tipped his out behind the bar, but Castiel drank. And kept drinking. He felt like he was s _weating_ alcohol.

A hand grabbed Castiel’s wrist, and he felt himself being pulled away from his glass. He blindly stumbled after it, not picking up on the garbled words that were probably being shouted his way. He hadn’t been this disoriented in a long time, and somewhere in the back of his mind he figured he should be concerned about it.

The dance floor was a blur of hands and teeth and shadows. Mouths closed over his belonging to sweet-tasting strangers, or maybe they didn’t, maybe he had imagined the hands under his shirt and the flashing colors behind his eyelids. The music pounded so hard he could feel it in his chest, a caged monster, a ritual drum. Time stretched and bubbled like it didn’t work quite right here – how long had he been on his feet? But eventually two hands clasped together behind his neck, and he found himself gazing into a pair of very familiar green eyes.

“You should let loose, Coach,” Dean said, too soft for this place. His eyes were far less clear now than they had been when they arrived. His hair had been spiked in different directions by sweaty, wayward hands. His shirt had been unbuttoned down to his sternum, and Castiel could see a hickey blossoming along his collarbone.

Dean’s arms slithered off of Castiel’s neck. He was sure that if he let him get away now he wouldn’t see Dean again for the rest of the night. A burst of possessiveness flared bright somewhere deep down in him; Castiel fit into place at Dean’s back as he turned, in time with the slow and seductive song winding its way around the room, and rolled his hips up against him. Dean pushed back into it, and Castiel dropped his forehead to Dean’s shoulder.

It wasn’t exactly dancing. Castiel ground deep and intentional against Dean, all lust and instinct, and Dean leaned back against him with boneless compliance. There wasn’t enough space to create friction here on this crowded dance floor, but Dean’s legs bowed out and if he bent forward just a little instead of arching his back, Castiel could thrust just right between his legs. He mouthed lazily at Dean’s neck and trailed a hand down the front of his shirt, swaying to the song. His eyes were closed and he couldn’t hear a thing – the only sensation he understood was touchtouchtouch where he rubbed up against Dean, where his hands deftly undid the button on his jeans and shoved into his pants, pressing down firmly on Dean’s inexcusable hard on. Arousal coursed its way through his bloodstream until he wasn’t sure what had him more intoxicated: chasing this dirty orgasm on the dance floor, or the alcohol. Dean was a writhing, sweaty mess against him, hands uselessly scrabbling at his clothes like he wanted to get naked right here in Purgatory.

Castiel jerked his hips and pinched Dean’s nipple through his damp shirt with his other hand. His heart pounded in time with the music when he could actually hear Dean’s ecstatic scream over all the other sounds in the club. Someone was pressing enthusiastically up against Castiel’s back, but he hardly noticed. Someone else swiped a hand down Dean’s face, pausing on his lips.

They had to get out of here. Too many other people were pawing at them, the air was too thick here. Castiel needed to lay Dean down and screw the ever-loving shit out of him, not mindlessly rut against him on a sticky dance floor.

“Find Benny,” he growled into Dean’s ear, punctuated with another hard roll of his hips. “We’re leaving.”

Dean nodded helplessly and stumbled away, shoving people away from him like he couldn’t give a shit that he might have been rude. He grabbed Castiel’s hand and pulled him along behind him.

They all made it out. Castiel remembered the cold air hitting his sweaty skin, the sudden sweet smell of a fresh evening breeze, but he hardly had time to enjoy it before Dean was on him again, tugging fiercely at his coat and panting in his ear.

Benny was saying something to them, something about crowds and cameras, but Castiel didn’t hear. He bit down on Dean’s lower lip instead, and that’s when everything went a little fuzzy around the edges.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean woke slowly to a gentle touch along his waistband. With a cracked moan and the startling realization that he was achingly hard, Dean ground his ass backwards into the solid line of Castiel’s body, delirious with want and sleep. He pressed his face into his clean pillow, gasping and moaning as Castiel nuzzled into his sensitive, overheated skin.

Castiel murmured softly as he pet him down, gently nudging at the back of Dean’s knee with his own. Dean slid from his side onto his back, and Castiel rolled right into place on top of him without breaking his hold for a second, eyes closed. Dean sighed when Castiel sat back into his lap and spread his legs a little wider for him to settle there. He hooked his ankles together in the small of Castiel’s back.

Dean had barely even opened his eyes for the day, but he was definitely more awake as Castiel’s hips pushed against his bare skin, as his hands down skimmed Dean’s sides. As he blinked into full consciousness, he found Castiel’s eyes boring into his, nose inches away from his own.

Dean flexed his legs and tightened his hold, urging Castiel forward as discreetly as possible. He was breathing heavily already, but his heart stopped all together as he lifted his head and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was soft and languid, exploratory and a bit stale but unbelievably tender and intense. Dean tapped the heel of his foot against Castiel’s back. _Get on with it_.

The sun woke up as they did. Each slow and gentle thrust of their bodies together brightened up the room, until Dean was raking his hands down Castiel’s back and whining and arching his back in the full light of day, and Castiel’s skin sparkled at the edges with sweat and sunshine. He tucked his head into Dean’s neck and moaned, gripping tight to his hips.

Dean’s orgasm hit him like a wave crashing on a beach: suddenly and powerfully, slowly ebbing away and leaving everything smooth and shining in its wake.

When Dean finally caught his breath again, it was to the sound of soft Russian being murmured into his collarbone and firm hands kneading the skin of his hips.

“That was either ‘nice ass’ or ‘good morning,’” Dean croaked. “I’m too tired to tell.”

Castiel rolled over to Dean’s side, and Dean turned to face him. Castiel was smiling broadly, oblivious to the slick mess still lingering on the curve of his stomach, and on Dean’s. His eyes positively gleamed in the morning light, only made brighter by the fucked up nest of dark hair Dean had pulled in a thousand different directions.

Instead of replying, he merely leaned forward and kissed Dean on the nose.

“Gross,” Dean protested.

“You,” Castiel rebutted.

Dean found himself grinning back regardless. “You know we get to go home today.”

Castiel nodded and stretched, like a cat. “We still have time to run through your routine before we leave.”

Dean shook his head. “This is so weird,” he declared, and Castiel looked like he knew what he meant. Waking up in the same bed is not something that they’d done much of before.

“What do you even do in the morning? You basically plan my whole day and I don’t know anything about yours,” Dean added.

Castiel hesitated, hovering over Dean and regarding him carefully. Dean reached up and scratched his nails through the stubble now covering his entire jaw. Much better than the mustache, in his opinion.

“I could show you,” Castiel told him. He was quiet, not quite wavering but his tone was still indecipherable. His eyes and his mouth shifted like he was still trying to decide if the offer was even a good idea in the first place. “But you don’t like to run.”

Dean’s eyes blew a little wider. “Right. Yeah, you said that. That you run,” he babbled.

“Mm,” he agreed.

Dean bit his lip. “I mean… it _is_ Saturday, isn’t it? Core and cardio?”

Castiel pulled back from him a little and blinked, his mouth slack. It was the look of a man ambushed in the wild. “It is.”

Dean shrugged. “So. Well.”

“So,” Castiel said. He leaned back to sit on his heels in bed. He held his hands out to Dean. “Would you like to go for a run with me, then?”

Dean nodded. Took Castiel’s hands. “Why not?”

They brushed their teeth together in the tiny hotel bathroom, making faces at each other in the mirror like they were used to doing in the gym. Dean loaned Castiel some black Under Armor socks and an old band t-shirt. His eyes only lingered a little while he changed into it, and then lingered a while longer when he couldn’t come up with a reason why they shouldn’t. Castiel held Indie’s leash while Dean grabbed two water bottles from the mini fridge. They made a pit stop at Castiel’s room on the way out so that Castiel could grab his shoes.

And they ran.

And ran and ran, until Dean felt totally empty of any liquid in his body. Ran until people on the sidewalk could catch up and ask Dean for a comment on the new movie. Ran until Dean saw the familiar Starbucks logo jutting out into the street.

Ran until Castiel noticed it too, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill from the inside pocket of his running shorts.

“I’ll buy,” he said. And then he winked.

To show his thanks, Dean let Castiel sip out of his iced coffee, even though he’d already ordered his own. Indie splayed out along the sidewalk in the shade while they lingered by the front door, trading cups and trying to catch their breath.

“Humidity,” Dean bemoaned.

“Mm,” Castiel solemnly agreed.

“You’re barely even sweating!”

“I’m sweating on the inside,” Castiel replied. “Should we get cake pops?”

Dean sputtered. “They’re not on my diet!”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Well… one would not kill you.”

His cup nearly dropped to the floor. Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Who _are_ you?”

Indie whined and rolled over. Castiel bent down to pet her exposed tummy. “She’s exhausted. We should head back soon.”

Dean nodded and sucked up the last of the whipped cream at the bottom of his cup. “They’re probably wondering where we are by now.”

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Castiel mused. “Wouldn’t want to miss the flight.”

Dean shrugged. “I could… do without that.”

Castiel chuckled darkly and took Dean’s cup from him. “You’d miss California soon enough,” he promised. He walked both their cups over to the trashcan. Indie didn’t bother to get up from where she laid sprawled out on the floor. Dean squatted down beside her and scratched her ears.

“Guess we’ve got to get _you_ in shape too, huh, girl?” he teased. Indie didn’t respond. He tilted his head. “It’s not so bad, actually. If you get the right people to help you out,” he promised.

Dean looked up, and Castiel was already leaning against the door. His mouth tilted up as he watched.

“I’m tempted to ask you to stay where you are,” he murmured.

Dean smirked up at him. “We’re in _public_ , Cas,” he mocked.

He stood. Indie hastily rolled over and followed.

As he passed Castiel out the door, he patted his chest – solid, broad, and firm beneath the worn, sweat-stained t-shirt. _His_ shirt. He knew what the skin underneath felt like, tasted like, looked like. He knew the mole next to Castiel’s right nipple and the tattoo on his side that he’d never confess to getting back in his twenties and the thin stretches of white up the tops of his hips.

As they walked leisurely back to the hotel, dodging questions until the stray reporters lost interest, Dean took a mental step back.

He and Castiel were now slowly working into each other’s lives. He could easily see himself falling into this routine of working out in the mornings with Castiel and going for coffee. Chatting about the weather while they took turns walking the dog. Carelessly window shopping and joking about the wild night they’d had a few hours before.

If he’d been brave enough to take Castiel’s hand on the street, he had no doubt that Castiel would reach right back for him. Trust flared in his chest hot and reliable and certain, out of nowhere and without warning.

Crowley’s lackeys were in a state when they arrived back at the hotel. They fussed over Dean and demanded that he get upstairs to see Pamela before they left, who was as hung over as Dean should have been, but blissfully wasn’t. She slapped some foundation on him and tussled his hair and threw him a pair of sunglasses. And Castiel was waiting by the door by the time he was done and had collected all of his things, his own bag in hand.

So Dean _did_ reach out. He took Castiel’s hand, and he did it with a goddamn smile, because Cas had a sunglasses tan and still smelled like coffee and salt air and smiled back when he saw Dean. Like he really saw _him,_ finally, and it made him smile.

 _This_ , Dean dared to think as they boarded their plane home. _This could actually be something. If I work hard at it, I might get to keep this._

Castiel kept holding his hand even as the plane took off. In this, just as with all other things, he would offer Dean strength.

 

Things were good for a while. Dean and Castiel were practically attached at the hip once they got back to LA – teasing each other in the morning, hooking up after hours when they could.

Dean’s schedule started to speed up again. That light guy they took out partying convinced him to show up for a casting call for a guest star role on the series he worked for and, miraculously, they ended up casting him. Sam recorded it on TiVo and mocked him relentlessly for it, but Dean was the one laughing all the way to the bank. Plus, he’d made a new friend. Crowley would have been so proud.

His surly manager called him into his personal offices to go over some contracts and pay statements. Dean suspected that he also wanted to check up on Dean’s physical progress – Instagram photos were only so reliable.

Crowley’s hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his suit pants as he walked around Dean in a slow circle, and he looked him up and down with a smirk. “Not bad. How much do you weigh now? Around two-twenty?”

Dean nodded and couldn’t help the little flush of pride with himself. Setting and reaching goals had never really been a strength of his, but his hard work had really paid off.

“It was all Castiel,” he confessed honestly. “He really kept me going. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

Crowley gave him a funny look, scrutinizing. “Is that the trainer I hired?”

Dean laughed. “Uh, yeah. Obnoxious Russian guy? That’s him.”

Crowley snorted. “So he earned his keep. I guess I really _do_ have to pay him.” He flashed a mean smile over at Dean, jovially nudging his elbow with his own. “The silver lining being that I won’t have to from here on out, at least.”

Dean shoved Crowley’s elbow away and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Crowley drawled, as if speaking to a child, “You gained the muscle you needed to, and you’ve even cleaned up your act a bit. Lionsgate has no reason not to cast you now. I expect you’ll be getting the call any day now.”

Despite the good news, Dean’s heart sank. He could only just blink at his manager for a long moment.

“But. I mean. All this,” he said, gesturing to himself and flexing a little, noting how Crowley’s eyes flicked over with interest. “Doesn’t just stay like this. I have to work at it. I still need Castiel to keep me in shape.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You mean to tell me you’ve been seeing this man for five months and you haven’t memorized your workout schedule? Your diet plan?” Dean shrunk back as Crowley sneered. “You may be dumb as a brick, Winchester, but I’m pretty confident you picked up at least that much.”

Dean threw his hands up. “I’m lazy! I never work hard for anything! I have no discipline! Isn’t that what you said?”

“I used to think so,” Crowley admitted. “But quite frankly, you’ve proven me wrong these past months, pet. You kept your word. I’m starting to think you’re capable of more than we both thought.”

Dean groaned. What an inopportune time for somebody to start believing in him: after he’d already changed himself for them.

“I really depend on Castiel, Crowley. And I’m not just saying it to screw you out of money – I really mean that,” he said. If he had to plead, he would.

Crowley’s playful attitude dropped in an instant. “My job was to find you a movie role, and I’ve done that. If _you_ want use of his services,” he scowled, “then you can pay for them yourself. Which I suspect that you can’t.”

Dean closed his mouth. That same insecurity he felt in Starbucks all that time ago bubbled up again, the worry that he would lose what he had worked so hard to gain suddenly a harsh and dangerous flare in his chest.

He couldn’t pay Castiel to keep training him. He liked to think that they’d gotten close enough that Castiel wouldn’t ask for money if Dean couldn’t freely give it – in fact, he was sure of that – but that wasn’t realistic for either of them. Castiel needed to keep all of his available timeslots open for people that _could_ afford to pay him. He was trying to make it just like everybody else in LA. He had his own dreams to chase and nourish. No way would Dean want to hold him back from achieving that.

Crowley stood by to watch him work through all of that, and nodded when Dean’s shoulders drooped in defeat. “I’ve already sent him a notice about the termination of our contract. Finish up your program. The final casting calls are in two weeks.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I’ll, um.” He stopped to clear his throat. “I’ll do that.”

Crowley slapped Dean’s shoulder with a nasty grin. “Good.”

He made his way home in a bit of a daze. Benny picked up on his mood quickly enough and didn’t try to engage him when Dean crawled across the seats with a haunted look in his eyes. Dean would try to remember to be grateful for it when he got over this, promise.

 

The official countdown to Dean’s last workout with Castiel had begun. Had five months really flown by so quickly? When he started this whole thing, Dean thought for sure that the months were going to drag on. Now that his deadline had come, he couldn’t help but wish he’d had a little more time.

He walked onto the floor of The Gym like a man condemned to hang. Castiel leaned against that same wall he always leaned against, lighting up when Dean walked through the door. His shoulders just kind of relaxed, and his _face…_

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, and wondered if he should even mention what Crowley had told him.

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel.

Dean smiled. It wasn’t his best. “Hey, Cas.”

He had to know, right? He had to see that his schedule would change in two weeks. Maybe Dean wouldn’t have to say anything at all, make a quiet get away instead.

Castiel broke the tension for him by saying, “Well, we… don’t have much time left.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, man, Crowley told me a few days ago. I –”

Castiel shook his head. “I know, I know – he called me. It’s nothing to worry about now. Let’s just…”

He paused, to lick his lips, and stare at Dean’s face. He got the odd feeling that he was trying to memorize the details. The random scatter of his freckles, maybe, or the exact shade of his eyes.

“Let’s just do our best today,” Castiel decided on.

Dean snorted. “Ok then, Sesame Street. You want to set me up?”

Castiel grinned and nodded his head. “Da. I do.”

The quiet acceptance was worse than any reaction Dean could have gotten. The peace that Castiel had seemed to make with Dean’s parting. His composure was almost flawless, almost unbreakable, except for that when they held each other next, late at night in Dean’s dark apartment, Castiel moved too slowly. He kissed Dean’s neck and murmured Russian that wasn’t sharp or dirty, but sounded more like poetry. Or a goodbye.

No, that. _That_ was the worst reaction that Dean hadn’t even been expecting.

 

August flew by. The temperature cooled to hover in the low 70s. The sun still shone like it was any other normal day.

But it wasn’t just another normal day. It was the _last_ day.

Dean’s gym bag had scuffs all along its surface. It looked like a professional’s now: streaked with dirt and battle-scarred. His muscles were respectable too. He walked with total confidence across the gym floor, aware of his surroundings. He was familiar with repeated faces, sensitive and kind to those who shrunk out of his way. Immune to the smell of B.O. and Clorox.

But the thumping of his heart when he looked at Castiel, that was still as fresh as the first day he’d walked in.

They walked together to the treadmill without a word. Castiel set up the machine, for old time’s sake, and walked away as Dean began to jog. Dean put in his headphones and turned up Castiel’s playlist.

He finally got to the very last song by the time Castiel came to collect him.

Castiel shook his head. “You don’t have to max out today,” he told him. “You can go easier on yourself.”

Dean chuckled. “You’re not going to push me for once? Wow, you must really love me.”

For a few horrifying seconds, Castiel didn’t utter a word. Dean desperately wanted to take the words back, suck them back into his mouth and pretend he’d never said anything, but Castiel didn’t laugh it off. He just blinked, looked away, and sighed.

Oh.

_Oh._

Dean cleared his throat and positioned himself where he needed to be. “I’m just – yeah,” he muttered.

Castiel stood to the side and began to count. “One. Two. Three. Four…”

The sad, soft voices. The lack of eye contact and conspicuous _absence_ of any flirting. Dean hated that this felt like a break up.

“We’re still going to hang out after this, right?” Dean asked, panic suddenly overtaking him. He held his weights in mid-curl, until Castiel was forced to tear his eyes away from his arms and meet his eyes again.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure,” he said, unconvincingly. “If you’re not too busy filming.”

Dean scoffed. “Never too busy for you.”

Castiel’s smile softened a little. “Five. Six.”

Dean started up again.

They both tried to draw the last stretches out. Held their positions longer, repeated some steps. Anything to delay the inevitable. But eventually, of course, all good things have to come to an end.

Dean stood in front of Castiel and held out his hand. “It was great working with you, Cas. I mean it.”

Castiel slipped his hand into his, solid and warm and steady. “I feel the same,” he said simply.

Dean took his hand back after a beat too long, and had to swallow hard against the sudden swelling emotion in his throat. “Um, well. Yeah. Thanks.”

It would hurt less to close it there. It would be easier to walk away if he didn’t even have to say a goodbye.

Castiel put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank _you_.” The honest gratitude was what sent him over the edge.

Dean nodded, grabbed his bag, and stepped away. He tossed Castiel a cheesy salute and a half-hearted grin, and then he turned around and stepped out through The Gym doors to where Benny’s car was waiting for him.

Dean clicked his seatbelt robotically, expressionless. He set his gym bag on the seat next to him and stared out the window to watch the street roll by.

Benny sighed and started the car.

His voice was too cheerful when he decided to speak. “You gonna miss it at all?” he asked Dean.

It didn’t make sense for him to feel like he was losing something. Dean would be back again next week, same as always, but it wouldn’t quite be the same. Actually, maybe it would be better if he just changed gyms altogether.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I really am.”

 

A visitor sat waiting on his apartment steps when he arrived, big black bag in hand and too-white grin flashing in his direction.

Even in his melancholy mood, Dean had a smile to spare for his stylist. “Hey, Pam. Am I late today?” he asked.

Pamela shook her head. “Nah. I just felt like getting here early.” She squinted at him, barely noticeable to someone unfamiliar with her expressions, and frowned a little. “Not feeling so good today, huh?”

Dean shook his head wryly and moved around her to let her into the apartment. “It’s been kind of a rough day. Don’t worry about it. You want something to drink?”

“Sparkling water, if you have it,” she replied, pulling her bag behind her and setting up in Dean’s living room.

Dean rolled his eyes and reached the fridge. “You know damn well I do,” he murmured, pulling out a bottle for him and one for Pam.

Her hands were firm and steady as they pushed through his hair, spiking it just the way he liked. He leaned back in his chair as she worked, massaging a little as she slicked product through the strands.

“It won’t hurt forever you know,” she said quietly. Dean swallowed.

“How do you know?” he asked.

Pamela just shrugged and reached for her tiny pot of concealer. “Nothing ever does,” she said simply.

Pamela had a knack for making him feel better, and the best part about her advice was that it was usually true. If anything, Dean could hold onto her words while he tried to get over his dejected longing.

Castiel was still at the gym the next day, but whether it was intentional or not, he didn’t meet Dean’s eyes when he sauntered in at his usual time. Instead, he was standing with some grinning young woman, holding onto a clipboard.

Dean winced. _Ouch._ Cas moved on fast.

Dean kept his eyes on the pair of them the whole time he was jogging on the treadmill instead of thinking about how weird this first solitary workout was going to be. The woman with Castiel was thin and bubbly, with short auburn hair and hazel eyes and a cute purple quarter zip over her trendy, tight leggings. Castiel kept his eyes fixed on her the entire half hour, nodding and interviewing her just as he had done for Dean on his first day.

As Dean watched, his expression stayed neutral, as unapproachable as he’d been to _Dean_ five months ago. All traces of the gentle and confident man he had come to know had become buried under this professionalism, Dean realized, and it all of a sudden occurred to him that they had been in the same boat this entire time. Cas had as few meaningful relationships as Dean did; he wasn’t able to get too involved with people he would only train for a handful of months at most.

 _Poor bastard_ , Dean thought as he came down from his run. Castiel took on everyone else’s journeys – his clients’ goals became his goals, their dreams became his world – but he wasn’t ever able to take a journey for himself. He was always getting left behind.

Maybe… Maybe they kind of _needed_ each other. In that way.

It was a nice thought anyway, that Dean had been able to give something back to Castiel, after everything.

 

With a sigh, Dean heaved himself up off the couch. Indie was pawing insistently at the door, and her watery, sad eyes were shimmering at full power. Dean didn’t waste any time fixing her leash up – Indie didn’t look like she could wait, dancing from paw to paw as she was. He threw the bolt on the door and trotted after his waddling Spaniel.

“Please don’t pee in the elevator again, _please_ ,” he muttered, slamming the ‘close door’ button as fast as he could.

Indie dashed off to find a place on the lawn to do her business as soon as he opened the front door, and Dean watched her sniff around for a minute before pulling out his phone again.

He quickly dismissed the Instagram notifications clogging his home screen, scanning for any DM or text notifications.

Nothing.

He opened up Snapchat instead. Maybe Cas didn’t have his phone on him. That could be, actually. He wasn’t nearly as attached to the thing as Dean was, and frequently made fun of him for it in the past.

**coachkrush**

**Opened 47m ago**

Dean pursed his lips. That little white space was mocking him, no doubt. He closed the window and opened up his messages again, just in case he missed something. No new texts.

No reply. No acknowledgment. Silence.

Dean took a deep breath through his nose and turned his phone off. Maybe Cas was busy with a client. Maybe he was on a run. Maybe he’d get back to him later.

Maybe they never had anything in common to begin with.

He couldn’t have been on his phone for more than five minutes, which is why Dean didn’t immediately understand when he lifted his head to find that Indie was nowhere in sight.

It sunk in slowly. His heart dropped, his stomach swooped.

“Indie?” He whistled once. “Hey, girl, c’mere!”

He didn’t hear any cute snuffling, no gentle jingling of dog tags. He speed-walked to the edge of the lawn and peered around the corner. “Indie?”

There was nothing in the alley.

“Shit,” Dean hissed. “Shit, _shit._ ”

He jogged to the end of the alley and made sure to check behind the dumpster. He kicked over some soggy cardboard boxes – no tawny hide huddled beneath them. Worst case scenarios started popping into his head too rapidly to dismiss or forget: Indie’s tiny body squished under a car, trapped in a storm drain with a broken leg, cold and lost and alone, god _dammit_ , why didn’t he hook up her leash? Why hadn’t he been paying more attention?

“Indie! Come here, girl, come on!” Dean tried to ignore the panic rising in his voice – _stay calm, stay calm_ – as he circled the block. What if someone took her? “Indie!” What if she ran away and wouldn’t ever come home?

The chill cut through Dean’s thin shirt, and the minute he began to shiver was also when he noticed that he had ended up right back where he started, outside his own front door.

And still no sign of Indie.

Defeated, Dean dragged his feet back to the stoop to sit. He hung his head between his knees and slumped his shoulders.

He was always chasing things. He followed Sam to law school, he kept hounding Castiel with stupid Snapchats, he circled his neighborhood to look for his fucking dog. He breathed slowly and fought valiantly against the stinging in his eyes. It felt like a curse at this point, to be sitting on his front step with a quiet phone and not a soul around. And just when he thought that things were starting to change. No matter how hard he worked he would always get left behind –

_Woof!_

Dean looked up.

Suddenly, from out of the blue and across the lawn, trotted Dean’s little puppy. Tongue out, tail swinging, paws muddy. She came right over, like he’d been yelling for her to do, and licked Dean’s knee with all the heartfelt affection in the world.

A wet laugh bubbled up out of Dean’s chest as he pet the back of her head. Feeling her soft fur beneath his hand, he scooped her up and rubbed his face in it, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Hi, baby,” he murmured. Indie wriggled happily in his grip.

He stood, brought her inside – one foot in front of the other, that’s it, Dean – and didn’t let her go until the sun came up again in the morning.

Sometimes, it’s not just about working hard for the things you want, or for the people you care about. Sometimes, you have to have faith that they’ll meet you halfway.

 

Dean rarely spent time on his cellphone anymore. The empty notifications and his empty message box disheartened him in a way that was difficult to explain. But this call, this was one that he needed to take.

“Dean Winchester?” the prim voice on the other line asked.

Dean immediately sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He could practically hear the smile over the phone line, the pleased tone when the person said, “My name is Naomi. I’m calling from the Lionsgate offices.”

Dean gaped. Holy shit, this was it. This was the call he’d been waiting for and the person on the other end sounded _pleased_ to be speaking with him.

“What can I do for you today, Naomi?” he croaked.

“Well, Dean, we’d like to negotiate a contract with you. Would you be available to meet with us within the next week or so? What time is convenient for you?” she asked.

Dean’s fingers curled tight around the phone.

He’d done it.

He got the fucking part. His first big movie deal.

Premieres, print promos, interviews, talk shows; everything he daydreamed of on the treadmill, it was all within reach. The glamor of it all flashed in front of him like a brand-new camera bulb, leaving him stunned in its wondrous wake.

He turned to look at his calendar hanging up by the front door, with his mouth open and breath caught in his throat. Any words he might have said died right there on his tongue.

His sneakers were still unlaced by the front door. His gym bag, left open and spilling out into the hallway. A striped wristband had been left on the front table.

“If you need some extra incentive, you can be sure to look forward to a generous signing bonus,” Dean heard.

He could buy his own coffee now. He could buy a million, _billion_ coffees now. Someone had finally _noticed_ him. And all he’d had to give up for it was… well.

Everything he used to be. Which, granted, wasn’t much, according to everyone else. Everyone except Castiel, that is.

This nameless voice at the end of a phone line, at the head of an office somewhere downtown, couldn’t – didn’t – appreciate the strides Dean had taken in the last five months not only to fit a role, but to be a better person. Did this really matter? Was the fame, and the veneer of success, was that worth losing himself again?

Being noticed didn’t always mean being _appreciated,_ or being understood. Which one did he want more? Which had he been searching for all his life?

The representative kept chattering, nervously filling the space that Dean should have stuck his answer into, but only static crackled in his ears him from there on out, and some unsteady feeling in his heart just wouldn’t lift away.

His phone pinged again, right near his ear as he listened to the executive speak. A new text message, like a gift from the universe.

 **CAS:** _Dinner tonight?_

Dean grinned, and he hung up the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

At 4:30 on Sunday morning, Dean’s alarm went off on his bedside table. He felt around blindly across the empty side of the bed and swiped his phone silent, reveling in one brief moment of quiet before breathing deep through his nose. The moment passed, and he rubbed lazily at his eyes. He swung his feet out from under the warm sheets to hit the floor.

There was water, both for him and for Indie. There were two protein bars, and another deep breath. There were jingling sounds from the dog’s leash, loose in his grip, while shoes got tied tight over black ankle socks. There were encouraging noises from owner to dog, and back again. There was the flat, familiar sound of rubber soles slapping against uneven pavement.

A new morning soundtrack. A new routine. Indie was grinning as they flew down the street, tongue lolling blissfully to the side, ears flapping in the breeze. Dean ended up carrying her most of the way in the end, but truthfully he didn’t mind. He enjoyed the comforting weight of her against his chest, the sweet way she licked the salt from his arms.

They ran, and their harsh panting began to fill the emptiness of a beautiful morning. They stopped to rest and people-watch for a while. Indie collapsed happily at Dean’s feet as he moved off to the edge of the sidewalk, breathing deep and stretching to stay loose.

His chest heaved and his lungs ached. His hair was slicked down with sweat and his face and calves burned with exertion. He grabbed his toes easily with his hands and leaned over, ducking his forehead to his knees and dripping sweat onto the sidewalk. His phone, nestled in an armband that had already begun to tear in some places from overuse, chirped another alarm.

He never would have thought he would grow to like this feeling. This harsh, bodily reality. This reminder that he was alive. He still hated running, he truly did, but he loved how it made him _feel_ afterwards. He was strong enough to survive the punishing pace he set for himself. It was no longer difficult to wake up in the morning; he found that these days he had more than enough energy to do so.

He stroked his dog, whispered some words of encouragement to her, and jogged the rest of the way as a cool-down. A reward. A gradual descent back to a normal pace. The shiny chrome of Sweetgreen was in sight all of a sudden, down the block and to his left, and Dean’s stomach grumbled for brunch. Indie even seemed to perk up. By now, she must have recognized the neighborhood.

He was sweat-streaked and water-stained and red all over and still breathing heavily, but he didn’t care. He got in line, ordered his quinoa and kale, and let another jogger pet his wilting King Charles.

This was a good morning. One of many. He was smiling despite his exhaustion and it was effortless. He put his change in the tip jar and got a bright and sunny “Thank you!” in reply.

He sat down at a familiar table, across from the man who made him open his damn eyes.

“Hey,” he sighed.

Castiel smiled at him over his own breakfast, stirring his lemonade distractedly with a straw. “Good morning.”

Something in Dean’s chest settled.

“Did you have good run?” Castiel asked him.

Dean nodded and speared his salad, ravenous. “Mhm. Thinking of tacking on another mile or two,” he confessed, crunching noisily. He tried valiantly not to spray quinoa all over the table.

Castiel huffed a laugh, and reached beneath the table to where Indie lapped weakly at his ankle. She licked ice water from his fingers. “You don’t have to push so much,” Castiel reminded him. “You are no longer in conditioning.”

Dean’s eyes lit up as he stirred his food around. “Ha! I forgot to tell you. Sam shared a link on my Facebook wall this morning – apparently American Werewolf tanked at the box office.”

“Good. It would have been better with you in it,” Castiel deadpanned.

Dean softened. “Pretty sure it would have sucked anyway, but. Aw.”

Castiel’s mouth curved into a tiny smile, the kind that spread up his face slow and smooth like a sunrise.

“Congratulations on your new role,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve said that yet today.”

Dean blushed up to his ears. “You don’t have to do that _every day_ ,” he insisted. “It’s not even that great a part. Small indie movie. You don’t have to make a big deal about it.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean immediately missed the sunny smile it had chased away. “This is the first part you’ve gotten without Crowley’s help or advice, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And this is the first part you’ve taken because you chose it, because you liked the character, yes?”

“Well yes, but –”

“Then it is very important,” Castiel stressed. “And I am proud of you for… what is the phrase? ‘Branching out?’”

Dean ducked his head. “Thank you, baby.”

“You’re welcome. As always.”

He slipped his phone out of his armband while Castiel fussed over Indie. Dean checked his Instagram notifications and realized that he hadn’t posted a new picture in over two weeks.

“Hey. Smile,” Dean commanded, thumb poised over the camera button. Castiel lifted his head in a daze, and just managed to pull out a lopsided smile before Dean snapped a photo. Their individual salads were both visible.

Dean smiled down at it. “That’s actually pretty cute. I’m gonna Tweet that.”

Castiel scoffed. “Your last photo had me in it as well.”

“Oooh, keeping track of my social media?” Dean asked. He fiddled with filters for a while before deciding against them all together. He put _QT #nofilter_ as the caption and posted it before he had a chance to second-guess himself. “I always knew you were obsessed with me.”

Affectionately, Castiel rolled his eyes. He nudged Dean’s foot under the table with his own and sipped his lemonade. “Eat your grains.”

Dean cocked his head but speared another large mouthful. “You know, with the accent I can’t tell whether you’re saying ‘grains’ or ‘greens.’”

“Either,” Castiel replied.

Dean snorted. The girls next to them were whispering indiscreetly about how cute they were. “What time will you be home later?”

Castiel raised that one eyebrow that he _knew_ got Dean all hot and bothered, the jackass. “My last appointment ends at 9 PM,” he told him. He popped a lone cherry tomato into his mouth. “I can be at _your_ home 10-ish.”

Dean’s face reddened. Whoops. To be fair, it’s not like Castiel didn’t know that Dean had been trying to ask him to move in with him all week. It was written all over his stupid, love-drunk face.

“You gonna drive your fancy new sports car over there?” he asked, distracting himself.

It was Castiel’s turn to fidget bashfully. “No. I don’t take it to work.”

“Hey, you like nice things. No shame in it.”

Castiel shrugged and Dean just grinned. It was a rare moment indeed that he could make this man – collected, centered, rock-like in his solidity – as shy as he was just then.

“So I’ll see you then?” he asked.

Castiel nodded. “You will.”

“Cool.”

Boldly, Castiel reached across the table and linked their fingers together. Dean pretended to be preoccupied scrolling through his Twitter feed, but he squeezed down on his hand protectively.

“It’s a date, then.”

Castiel hummed, and Dean finally looked up. The sun was playing off his dark hair, highlighting the streaks of red scattered throughout. “Hey, Cas?”

Castiel lifted his head. “Yes?”

Dean leaned across the table.

“Don’t ever change.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the end <3 Thank you so much for taking this journey with me, you guys. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Please head on over to my [tumblr](ozonecologne.tumblr.com) if you'd like to see more from me. I am currently taking prompt requests at this time too :)


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